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NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED,
BY
W I L L I A M B R O W N E,
OF
THE INNER TEMPLE, GENT.
OF
" BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS,"
1613.
[ p.1 Advertisement ] (image of Advertisement page 1.)
OF
f my taste is not very erroneous, the following hitherto unpublished poems of a celebrated pastoral author will be deemed a very interesting treasure by the lovers of old English Poetry. It is not, however, my intention, before the whole, or the larger part, of them is printed, to enter into any long criticism on their merits; or to make more than a few brief statements and remarks, which perhaps the reader will expect, before he enters on a perusal of them.WILLIAM BROWNE, son of Thomas Browne of Tavistock, in Devonshire, Gent. was born in that town, about 1590, and sent to Exeter College, Oxford, soon after King James I. ascended the English throne; and thence removed to the Inner Temple, where he published the First Part of his "Britannia's Pastorals," in folio, 1613; and the Second Part in 1616. These Two Parts were reprinted in 8vo. in 1625. He also published "The Shepherd's Pipe, in Seven Eclogues," in 1614, 8vo. In 1624, he returned to Exeter College, as tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards Earl of Caernarvon, who was killed at the battle / p.2 Advertisement / of Newbury, Sept. 20, 1643. He then became a retainer to the Earl of Pembroke: and here, says Wood, "he got wealth, and purchased an estate, which is all that I know of him hitherto, only that, as he had a little body, so he had a great mind. In my searches I find one William Browne of Ottery St. Mary, in Devon, died in the winter time, 1645; whether the same with the poet, I am hitherto ignorant." a
--------------------------- --------------------------- The few slight facts thus recorded by Wood, will be amply confirmed by the contents of the following Poems. The University of Oxford, and the Pembroke family, make a conspicuous figure in them. All that we have heard, and conceived, of the character and moral habits of B ROWNE, without possessing the facts on which his cotemporaries [lit.] probably founded them, is here also amply established: and is a strong illustration of an opinion always entertained by me, that we ought to be very slow, and reluctant, in denying the praises bestowed on individuals, by those who were coeval with the subjects of them, merely because the particulars recorded do not seem to justify the fame conferred. Reputation is generally the result of a combination of qualities, and virtues, and performances, many of which having been omitted to be recorded, while familiar to every one, have gradually been effaced from memory. Thus the fame of BROWNE / p.3 Advertisement / which his known works never seemed to me to authorize, have been partly founded on the smaller poems, now recovered from oblivion. I will not hesitate to say, that I far prefer these latter to his more laboured compositions, which he gave to the world, as the formal efforts on which he chose to rest his honours. This likewise is in conformity with another favourite opinion, with which I have always been impressed. To me the very restraint and artificiality of a work, forced, and polished, and toiled upon, for the public eye, destroys much of the charm, of the ease, and freshness, and vigour, which a mind of high native powers would otherwise give to a composition. Break the natural and uncalled chain of ideas; wipe off, or dry up the dew with which the waters of Helicon sprinkle the first shoot of their plants; and the spell is gone!There is a simplicity, a chasteness, a grace, a facility, a sweetness in some of the present short poems, which to me is full of attraction and delight; and is the more surprising when it is contrasted with the corrupt and absurdly-metaphysical style of most of BROWNE's cotemporaries. George Wither had the same simplicity; and I have formerly, when I had not seen the present poems, set Wither above his friend BROWNE; but the present pieces prove, that Wither had not the same taste: he wanted selection, and compression. |
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But I wander beyond the limits I had imposed on myself. I will at present expatiate no further on the genius of BROWNE. On that which seems to have given a colour to the course of his life, I may be allowed in this place to throw out a few sentiments. BROWNE's days were enlivened by a patronage, which must have been propitious to his poetical pursuits. Of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, whose favour it is apparent that he enjoyed, the character is drawn with such extraordinary brilliancy of language by Lord Clarendon, the great historian of human nature, that it must be familiar to every educated English reader. He, whose knowledge of our national story, and whose acquaintance with the biography of his country is enlivened by fancy and sentiment, cannot recall the classical bowers of Wilton, or the spacious galleries of Penshurst, without reviving an array of intellectual splendor and glory, that bursts upon the mind with melancholy enchantment. For my part, I have often gazed with a pensive transport, till I have forgot myself, on the full-length portrait, drawn by Cornelius Jansen, of this amiable nobleman, at Penshurst, faded as are its colours, and desolate and neglected as it hangs, amid numbers of illustrious companions, upon the walls of those magnificent, but now silent apartments! The well-known Epitaph of the celebrated Countess, this / p.5 Advertisement / Earl's mother, has been generally ascribed to Ben Jonson. The first stanza is printed in "Jonson's Poems." But it is to be found in the MS. volume of "BROWNE'S Poems" and on this evidence may, I think, be fairly appropriated to him. I repeat it here, in the words of the MS. that the reader may form his own opinion.
THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE.
Then follows a long Elegy on the Countess, beginning thus:
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Her son, Earl William, has had the fame of a poet, but his right to the poems ascribed to him, has been questioned, as standing on no adequate authority. The following Song occurs, with his name subscribed to it, at the end of the MS. b of these Poems of BROWNE; and may, therefore, be taken to be his, on the authority of one who had the best means of ascertaining it.
b The same MS. appropriates to Sir Walter Raleigh the poem containing the famous stanza, beginning, |
It had been long supposed that some MS. Poems of BROWNE were among the Collections of Warburton, the Herald. The MS. from which the present Poems are copied, is in the British Museum, among the Lansdowne MSS. which contain a portion of Warburton's Papers; and thence, I take for granted, came this very valuable volume.
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t has been said that Anthony Wood, the original biographer of WILLIAM BROWNE, knew little of his private history or connections. A mere accident threw in my way, on April 4, 1816, while searching for other things, a record of his descent, if we admit, as I think it is impossible to question, his identity with William Browne of the Inner Temple, son of Thomas Browne of Tavistock, for whom the genealogy in the following Table is drawn. "And to what," it will be asked, "does this discovery amount? Is it more than the merest of trifles? Are you so weak, as to give it even the importance of a notice?" I am so weak : and not ashamed of my weakness ! But not so much because the Poet derives honour from the noble stem and once-flourishing branches of BROWNE, as because he reflects a lustre upon them. I could say much on this subject, if I had leisure; when I would attempt to give a momentary impulse to the cold blood and groveling minds of those ill-deserving members of the upper orders of society, who possess high birth, high rank, and large estates, without a correspondent loftiness and cultivation of intellect and of the heart ! / p.2 Appendix / Perhaps, however, the waste even of a few minutes' attention on such base wretches, is beneath the dignity of literature, or of the glowing ambition of any tolerably-eloquent pen.
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BY
WILLIAM BROWNE.
WAKE, fair Muse; for I intendThese everlasting lines to thee ! And, honour'd Drayton, come and lend An ear to this sweet melody : For on my harp's most high and silver string, To those Nine Sisters whom I love, I sing.
This man through death and horror seeks |
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But I, that serve the lovely Graces, Spurn at that dross, which most adore; And titles hate, like painted faces, And heart-fed Care for ever more. Those pleasures I disdain, which are pursu'd With praise and wishes by the multitude.
The bays, which deathless Learning crowns,
Through the fair skies I thence intend, |
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From fair Aurora will I rear Myself unto the source of floods; And from the Ethiopian Bear, To him as white as snowy woods; Nor shall I fear, (for this day taking flight) To be wound up in any veil of night.
Of Death may I not fear the dart,
All costly obsequies inveigh; |
EHOLD, O God! in rivers of my tearsI come to thee! bow down thy blessed ears To hear me, wretch, and let thine eyes (which sleep Did never close) behold a sinner weep: Let not, O God, my God, my faults through great, And numberless, between thy mercy's seat And my poor soul be thrown! since we are taught, Thou, Lord, remember'st thine, if thou be sought. I come not, Lord, with any other merit Than what I by my Saviour Christ inherit: Be then his wounds my balm; his stripes my bliss; My crown his thorns; my death be lost in his. And thou, my blest Redeemer, Saviour, God, Quit my accounts, withhold the vengeful rod! O beg for me! my hopes on thee are set; And Christ forgive, as well as pay the debt. |
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The living fount, the life, the way, I know, And but to thee, O whither should I go? All other helps are vain: grant thine to me, For in thy cross my saving health must be. O hearken then what I with faith implore, Lest Sin and Death sink me for evermore. Lastly, O God! my ways direct and guide; In death defend me, that I never slide; And at the doom let me be raised then, To live with thee; sweet Jesus, say Amen!
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BLESSED man! who, homely bred,In lowly cell can pass his days, Feeding on his well gotten bread; And hath his God's, not others' ways. |
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That doth into a prayer wake, And rising (not to bribes or bands) The power that doth him happy make, Hath both his knees, as well as hands:
His threshold he doth not forsake,
By some sweet stream, clear as his thought,
He hath a table furnish'd strong, |
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His afternoon (spent as the prime) Inviting where he mirthful sups; Labour, and seasonable time, Brings him to bed, and not his cups.
Yet, ere he takes him to his rest,
If then a loving wife he meets, |
/ p.8 /
OW that the Spring hath fill'd our veinsWith kind and active fire, And made green liveries for the plains, And every grove a choir.
Sing we a song of merry glee,
Nor Care nor Sorrow ere paid debt,
No wife at home to send for me, |
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No suit at Law to pay a fee, Then round, old jockey round!
But see that no man 'scape To drink of the sherry, That makes us so merry, And plump as the lusty grape. |
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OFT have heard of Lidford Law, How in the morn they hang and draw, And sit in judgment after: At first I wonder'd at it much; But now I find their reason such, That it deserves no laughter.
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They have a castle on a hill; I took it for an old windmill, The vanes blown off by weather; To lie therein one night, 'tis guess'd, 'Twere better to be ston'd and press'd, Or hang'd, now choose you whether.
Ten men less room within this cave,
When I beheld it, Lord! thought I, |
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The Prince a hundred pounds hath sent, To mend the leads and planchings rent, Within this living tomb: Some forty-five pounds more had paid, The debts of all that shall be laid There, 'till the day of Doom.
One lies there for a seam of malt, John Vaughan, or John Doble.c c Attorneys of the Court.
Near to the men that lie in lurch, |
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Whereby you may consider well, That plain Simplicity doth dwell At Lidford, without bravery; For in that town, both young and grave Do love the naked truth, and have No cloaks to hide their knavery.
The people all, within this clime,
One told me in King Cæsar's time, |
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Oh! Cæsar, if thou there did'st reign, While one house stands, come there again; Come quickly while there is one: If thou but stay a little fit, But five years more, they may commit The whole town into prison.
To see it thus, much griev'd was I,
Sure I believe it then did rain |
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To nine good stomachs with our wig, At last we got a tything pig; This diet was our bounds: And that was just as if 'twere known, One pound of butter had been thrown Amongst a pack of hounds.
One glass of drink I got by chance,
I kiss'd the Mayor's hand of the town, |
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At six o'clock I came away, And pray'd for those that were to stay, Within a place so arrant: Wild and ope, to winds that roar, By God's grace I'll come there no more, Unless by some Tin Warrant.
W. B.
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T happened lately at a fair, or wake, (After a pot or two, or such mistake) Two iron-soled clowns, and bacon-sided, Grumbled: then left the farms which they bestrided, And with their crab-tree cudgels, as appears, Thrash'd (as they use) at one anothers' ears: A neighbour near, both to their house and drink, (Who though he slept at sermons) could not wink |
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At this dissention, with a spirit bold As was the ale that arm'd them, strong and old, Stept in and parted them; but Fortune's frown Was such, that there our neighbour was knock'd down! For they, to recompence his pains at full, Since he had broke their quarrel, broke his scull! People came in, and rais'd him from his swound; A chirurgeon then was call'd to search the wound, Who op'ning it, more to endear his pains, Cry'd out, "Alas! look, you may see his brains!" "Nay," quoth the wounded man, "I tell you free, Good Master Surgeon, that can never be; For I should ne'er have meddled with this brawl, If I had had but any brains at all." |
OVE! when I met her first, whose slave I am,To make her mine, why had I not thy flame? Or else thy blindness not to see that day? Or if I needs must look on her rare parts, Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts? Since I had not thy wings to fly away! |
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WINTER was gone, and by the lovely spring Each pleasant grove a merry choir became, Where day and night the careless birds did sing; Love! when I met her first, whose slave I am.
She sate and listen'd; for she loves the strain |
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I vainly sought my passion to controul, And therefore since she loves the learned lay, Homer! I should have brought with me thy soul, Or else thy blindness not to see that day!
Yet would I not, mine eyes, my days out-run
Those, seen of one who every herb would try,
O Dædalus! the labyrinth fram'd by thee |
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AY, why on your hair yet staysThat snow, resembling white; Since the Sun's less powerful rays Thaw'd that, which fell last night?
Sure to hinder those extremes
Yet as on a cloth of gold, |
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So sometimes the amorous air Doth with your fair locks play, And unclouds a golden hair; And then breaks forth the day.
On your cheeks the rosy morn
Now we all are at a stay,
If it should not fall amain,
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OT long agone a youthful swain, Much wronged by a maid's disdain, Before Love's Altar came; and did implore That he might like her less, or she love more. The God him heard, and she began To doat on him, he (foolish man) Cloy'd with much sweets, thus chang'd his note before, O let her love one less, or I like more. |
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OVE who will, for I'll love none, There's fools enough beside me: Yet if each woman have not one, Come to me where I hide me, And if she can the place attain, For once I'll be her fool again. |
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It is an easy place to find, And women sure should know it; Yet thither serves not every wind, Nor many men can show it: It is the storehouse, where doth lie All women's truth and constancy.
If the journey be so long, |
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HALL I love again, and try If I still must love to lose, And make weak mortality Give new birth unto my woes? |
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No, let me ever live from Love's enclosing, Rather than love to live in fear of losing.
One, whom hasty Nature gives
With the Arabian Bird then be, |
EEP are the wounds which strike a virtuousname; Sharp are the darts Revenge still sets on wing: Consuming, Jealousy's abhorred flame! Deadly the frowns of an enraged King! Yet all these to Disdain's heart-searching string (Deep, sharp, consuming, deadly) nothing be, Whose darts, wounds, flames, and frowns, meet all in me! |
ELL me, Pyrrha, what fine youth,All perfum'd and crown'd with roses, To thy chamber thee pursu'th, And thy wanton arm encloses?
What is he thou now hast got, |
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How much will he wail his trust, And (forsook) begin to wonder, When black winds shall billows thrust, And break all his hopes in sunder?
Fickleness of winds he knows,
I as one from shipwreck free |
ET one day's rest for all my cries,One hour among so many! Springs have their sabbaths, my poor eyes Yet never met with any.
He that doth but one woe miss, |
OOR silly fool! thou striv'st in vain to knowIf I enjoy, or love whom thou lov'st so; Since my affection ever secret tried, Blooms like the fern, and seeds still unespied.
And as the subtle flames of heaven, that wound |
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My love wars on my heart, kills that within, When merry are my looks, and fresh my skin.
Of yellow jaundice lovers as you be,
His griefs are sweet, his joys (O) heavenly move,
This is my way, and in this language new |
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EAR soul the time is come, and we must part, Yet, ere I go, in these lines read my heart; A heart so just, so loving, and so true, So full of sorrow and so full of you, That all I speak, or write, or pray, or mean, And (which is all I can) all that I dream, Is not without a sigh, a thought for you, And as your beauties are, so are they true. Seven summers now are fully spent and gone, Since first I lov'd, lov'd you, and you alone; And shall mine eyes as many hundreds see, Yet none but you shall claim a right in me; |
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A right so plac'd that time shall never hear Of one so vow'd, or any lov'd so dear. When I am gone (if ever prayers mov'd you) Relate to none that I so well have lov'd you; For all that know your beauty and desert, Would swear that he ne'er lov'd, that knew to part. Why part we then? that spring which but this day Met some sweet river, in his bed can play, And with a dimple cheek smile at their bliss, Who never know what separation is. The amorous vine with wanton interlaces Clips still the rough elm in her kind embraces: Doves with their doves sit billing in the groves, And woo the lesser birds to sing their loves; Whilst hapless we in griefful absence sit, Yet dare not ask a hand to lessen it. |
ELCOME, welcome, do I sing,Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring forever. |
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Love, that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Love, that looks still on your eyes, |
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Love, that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool, if ere he seeks Other lillies, other roses. Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, to whom your soft lips yields,
Love that question would anew |
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E merry birds, leave off to sing, And lend your ears awhile to me; Or if you needs will court the spring With your enticing harmony, Fly from this grove, leave me alone; Your mirth cannot befit my moan.
But if that any be inclin'd
Ye Nymphs of Thames, if any swan |
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O bring her hither, if ye can, And sitting by us in a ring, Spend each a sigh, while she and I Together sing, together die.
Alas! how much I err, to call
To me my griefs none other are, |
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Then Sorrow, since thou wert ordain'd To be the inmate of my heart, Thrive there so long, till thou hast gain'd In it than life a greater part: And if thou wilt not kill, yet be The means that some one pity me!
Yet would I not that pity have |
S O N N E T S.
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O I the man, that whilom lov'd and lost, Not dread my loss, do sing again of love; And like a man but lately tempest-tost, Try if my stars still inauspicious prove: |
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Not to make good, that poets never can Long time without a chosen mistress be, Do I sing thus; or my affections ran Within the maze of mutability; What best I lov'd, was beauty of the mind, And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair, Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere, I may adore it there, and love the cell For entertaining what I lov'd so well. |
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HY might I not for once be of that sect, Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right, Some other bodies to themselves elect; And sun-like make the day, and license night? That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere Was to enlighten straight another part; |
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In that horizon, if I see it there, Calls for my first respect and its desert; Her virtue is the same and may be more; For as the sun is distant, so his power In operation differs, and the store Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our. And verily I think her climate such, Since to my former flame it adds so much. |
AIREST, when by the rules of palmistryYou took my hand to try if you could guess, By lines therein, if any wight there be Ordain'd to make me know some happiness; I wish'd that those characters could explain, Whom will I never wrong with hope to win; Or that by them a copy might be seen, By you, O love, what thoughts I have within. |
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But since the hand of Nature did not set (As provident though loath to have it known) The means to find that hidden alphabet, Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone; By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, Fair, If now you see her, that doth love me there? |
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O sat the Muses on the banks of Thames, And pleas'd to sing our heavenly Spenser's wit, Inspiring almost trees with powerful flames, As Cælia when she sings what I have writ: Methinks there is a Spirit more divine, And elegance more rare when ought is sung By her sweet voice, in every verse of mine, Than I conceive by any other tongue: So a musician sets what some one plays With better relish, sweeter stroke, than he |
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That first compos'd: nay, oft the maker weighs, If what he hears, his own, or others' be. Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice, Become more gracious by her sweetest voice. |
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ER'T not for you, here should my pen have rest, And take a long leave of sweet Poesy; Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west, Should hear no more mine oaten melody: Yet shall the song I sing of them, awhile Unperfect lie, and make no further known The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle; Till I have left some record of mine own. You are the subject now, and, writing you, I well may versify, not poetise: Here needs no fiction for the Graces true, And virtues clip not with base flatteries. |
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Here should I write what you deserve of praise, Others might wear, but I should win the Bays. |
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ING soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps, And gentle gales play gently with the leaves; Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves Mine oaten reed devoted to her praise, (A theme that would befit the Delphian Lyre!) Give way, that I in silence may admire! Is not her sleep like that of innocents, Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair, Almost in death, than are the ornaments Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are? She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie, And sleep for ever, for she cannot die! |
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AIREST, when I am gone, as now the Glass Of Time is mark'd how long I have to stay, Let me intreat you, ere from hence I pass, Perhaps, from you for ever more away, Think that no common love hath fir'd my breast, No base desire, but Virtue truly known, Which I may love, and wish to have possest, Were you the highest as fairest of any one; 'Tis not your lovely eye enforcing flames, Nor beauteous red beneath a snowy skin, That so much binds me yours, or makes you flames, As the pure light and beauty shrin'd within: Yet outwards parts I must affect of duty, As for the smell we like the Rose's beauty. |
S oft as I meet one that comes from you,And ask your health, not as the usual fashion, Before he speaks, I doubt there will ensue, As oft there doth, the common commendation: |
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Alas ! think I, did he but know my mind, (Though for the world I would not have it so) He would relate it in another kind, Discourse of it at large, and yet but slow He should th' occasion tell, and with it too Add how you charg'd him he should not forget; For this you might, as sure some lovers do, Though such a messenger I have not met: Nor do I care, since 'twill not further move me, Love me alone, and say, alone you love me. |
ELL me, my thoughts (for you each minute fly,And see those beauties which mine eyes have lost,) Is any worthier love beneath the sky? Would not the cold Norwegian mixt with frost (If in their clime she were) from her bright eyes, Receive a heat, so powerfully begun, |
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In all his veins and numbed arteries, That would supply the lowness of the sun? I wonder at her harmony of words; Rare (and as rare as seldom doth she talk) That rivers stand not in their speedy fords, And down the hills the trees forbear to walk. But more I muse, why I should hope in fine, To get alone a beauty so divine. |
O get a Love and Beauty so divine,(In these so wary times) the fact must be, Of greater fortunes to the world than mine; Those are the steps to that felicity; For love no other gate hath than the eyes, And inward worth is now esteem'd as none; Mere outsides only to that blessing rise, Which Truth and Love did once account their own: |
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Yet as she wants her fairer, she may miss The common cause of Love, and be as free From earth, as her composure heavenly is; If not, I restless rest in misery, And daily wish to keep me from despair, Fortune my Mistress, or you not so fair! |
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AIR Laurel, that the only witness art To that discourse, which underneath thy shade Our grief-swoln breasts did lovingly impart, With vows as true as ere Religion made: If (forced by our sighs) the flame shall fly Of our kind love, and get within thy rind, Be wary, gentle Bay, and shriek not high! When thou dost such un'versal fervor find, Suppress the fire; for should it take thy leaves, Their crackling would betray us, and thy glory |
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(Honour's fair symbol) dies, thy trunk receives But heat sufficient for our future story. And when our sad misfortunes vanquish'd lie, Embrace our fronts in sign of memory. |
AD not the soil, that bred me, further done,And fill'd part of those veins which sweetly do, Much like the living streams of Eden, run, Embracing such a Paradise as you; My Muse had fail'd me in the course I ran, But that she from your virtues took new breath, And from your eyes such fire, that, like a swan, She in your praise can sing herself to death. Now could I wish those golden hours unspent, Wherein my fancy led me to the woods, And tun'd soft lays of merriment, Of shepherd's loves and never-resting floods: |
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For had I seen you then, though in a dream, Those songs had slept, and you had been my theme. |
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IGHT, steal not on too fast! we have not yet Shed all our parting tears, nor paid the kisses, Which four days' absence made us run in debt, (O, who would absent be where grow such blisses?) The Rose, which but this morning spread her leaves, Kist not her neighbour flowers more chaste than we: Nor are the timely ears bound up in sheaves More strict than in our arms we twisted be; O who would part us then, and disunite Two harmless souls, so innocent and true, That were all honest love forgotten quite, By our example men might learn anew. Night severs us, but pardon her she may, And will once make us happier than the day. |
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IVINEST Cælia, send no more to ask How I in absence do; your servant may Be freed from that unnecessary task: For you may know it by a shorter way. I was a shadow when I went from you; And shadows are from sickness ever free. My heart you kept (a sad one, though a true) And nought but Memory went home with me. Look in your breast, where now two hearts you have, And see if they agree together there: If mine want aid, be merciful and save, And seek not for me any other where: Should my physician question how I do, I cannot tell him, till I ask of you.
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/ p.47 /
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ITTING one day beside the banks of Mole, Whose sleepy stream, by passages unknown, Conveys the fry of all her finny shoal; (As of the fisher she were fearful grown;) I thought upon the various turns of time, And sudden changes of all human state; The fear-mixt pleasures of all such as climb To fortunes, merely by the hand of fate, Without desert. Then weighing inly deep The griefs of some whose nearness makes him mine; (Wearied with thoughts) the leaden god of sleep With silken arms of rest did me entwine: While such strange apparitions girt me round, As need another Joseph to expound. |
SAW a silver swan swim down the Lee,Singing a sad farewell unto the vale, While fishes leapt to hear her melody, And on each thorn a gentle nightingale; |
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And many other birds forbore their notes, Leaping from tree to tree, as she along The panting bosom of the torrent floats, Rapt with the music of her dying song: When from a thick and all-entangled spring A neatherd rude came with no small ado, (Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,) And quickly stroke her slender neck in two; Whereat the birds (methought) flew thence with speed, And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed. |
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ITHIN the compass of a shady grove I long time saw a loving turtle fly, And lastly pitching by her gentle love, Sit kindly billing in his company: Till (hapless souls) a faulcon sharply bent, Flew towards the place where these kind wretches stood, And sev'ring them, a fatal accident, She from her mate flung speedy through the wood; |
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And 'scaping from the hawk, a fowler set Close, and with cunning, underneath the shade, Entrapt the harmless creature in his net, And nothing moved with the plaint she made, Restrain'd her from the groves and deserts wide, Where overgone with grief, poor bird, she died! |
ROSE as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: And maidens danc'd about it more and more, And learned Bards of it their ditties made; The nimble Fairies, by the pale-fac'd moon, Water'd the roots, and kiss'd her pretty shade. But well-a-day, the gard'ner careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, |
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And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bird and every spray: God shield the stock; if heaven send me supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies. |
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OWN in a valley, by a forest side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, |
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I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride, As if the lillies grew to be his slaves; The gentle daisy, with her silver crown, Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass; The humble violet, that lowly down, Salutes the gay nymphs as |
