Part 3
What shall we do for Love these days? How shall we make an altar-blaze To smite the horny eyes of men With the renown of our Heaven, And to the unbelievers prove Our service to our dear god, Love? What torches shall we lift above The crowd that pushes through the mire, To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? I should think I were much to blame, If never I held some fragrant flame Above the noises of the world, And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares, Worshipped before the sacred fears That are like flashing curtains furled Across the presence of our lord Love. Nay, would that I could fill the gaze Of the whole earth with some great praise Made in a marvel for men's eyes, Some tower of glittering masonries, Therein such a spirit flourishing Men should see what my heart can sing: All that Love hath done to me Built into stone, a visible glee; Marble carried to gleaming height As moved aloft by inward delight; Not as with toil of chisels hewn, But seeming poised in a mighty tune. For of all those who have been known To lodge with our kind host, the sun, I envy one for just one thing: In Cordova of the Moors There dwelt a passion-minded King, Who set great bands of marble-hewers To fashion his heart's thanksgiving In a tall palace, shapen so All the wondering world might know The joy he had of his Moorish lass. His love, that brighter and larger was Than the starry places, into firm stone He sent, as if the stone were glass Fired and into beauty blown. Solemn and invented gravely In its bulk the fabric stood, Even as Love, that trusteth bravely In its own exceeding good To be better than the waste Of time's devices; grandly spaced, Seriously the fabric stood. But over it all a pleasure went Of carven delicate ornament, Wreathing up like ravishment, Mentioning in sculptures twined The blitheness Love hath in his mind; And like delighted senses were The windows, and the columns there Made the following sight to ache As the heart that did them make. Well I can see that shining song Flowering there, the upward throng Of porches, pillars and windowed walls, Spires like piercing panpipe calls, Up to the roof's snow-cloud flight; All glancing in the Spanish light White as water of arctic tides, Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. You had said, the radiant sheen Of that palace might have been A young god's fantasy, ere he came His serious worlds and suns to frame; Such an immortal passion Quivered among the slim hewn stone. And in the nights it seemed a jar Cut in the substance of a star, Wherein a wine, that will be poured Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. But within this fretted shell, The wonder of Love made visible, The King a private gentle mood There placed, of pleasant quietude. For right amidst there was a court, Where always musked silences Listened to water and to trees; And herbage of all fragrant sort, - Lavender, lad's-love, rosemary, Basil, tansy, centaury, - Was the grass of that orchard, hid Love's amazements all amid. Jarring the air with rumor cool, Small fountains played into a pool With sound as soft as the barley's hiss When its beard just sprouting is; Whence a young stream, that trod on moss, Prettily rimpled the court across. And in the pool's clear idleness, Moving like dreams through happiness, Shoals of small bright fishes were; In and out weed-thickets bent Perch and carp, and sauntering went With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare; Or on a lotus leaf would crawl A brindled loach to bask and sprawl, Tasting the warm sun ere it dipped Into the water; but quick as fear Back his shining brown head slipped To crouch on the gravel of his lair, Where the cooled sunbeams, broke in wrack, Spilt shattered gold about his back. So within that green-veiled air, Within that white-walled quiet, where Innocent water thought aloud, - Childish prattle that must make The wise sunlight with laughter shake On the leafage overbowed, - Often the King and his love-lass Let the delicious hours pass. All the outer world could see Graved and sawn amazingly Their love's delighted riotise, Fixed in marble for all men's eyes; But only these twain could abide In the cool peace that withinside Thrilling desire and passion dwelt; They only knew the still meaning spelt By Love's flaming script, which is God's word written in ecstasies. And where is now that palace gone, All the magical skilled stone, All the dreaming towers wrought By Love as if no more than thought The unresisting marble was? How could such a wonder pass? Ah, it was but built in vain Against the stupid horns of Rome, That pushed down into the common loam The loveliness that shone in Spain. But we have raised it up again! A loftier palace, fairer far, Is ours, and one that fears no war. Safe in marvellous walls we are; Wondering sense like builded fires, High amazement of desires, Delight and certainty of love, Closing around, roofing above Our unapproached and perfect hour Within the splendors of love's power.
Lascelles Abercrombie [1881-
ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree, His scarlet tunic burns; And livelier than the green sap's mantling glee The Spring fire tingles through him headily As quivering he turns And stammers out the old amazing tale Of youth and April weather; While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail, Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale, Beneath her purple feather.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson [1878-
ONCE ON A TIME
Once on a time, once on a time, Before the Dawn began, There was a nymph of Dian's train Who was beloved of Pan; Once on a time a peasant lad Who loved a lass at home; Once on a time a Saxon king Who loved a queen of Rome.
The world has but one song to sing, And it is ever new, The first and last of all the songs For it is ever true - A little song, a tender song, The only song it hath; "There was a youth of Ascalon Who loved a girl of Gath."
A thousand thousand years have gone, And aeons still shall pass, Yet shall the world forever sing Of him who loved a lass - An olden song, a golden song, And sing it unafraid: "There was a youth, once on a time, Who dearly loved a maid."
Kendall Banning [1879-
IN PRAISE OF HER
FIRST SONG From "Astrophel and Stella"
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure? Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth? Who womankind at once both decks and staineth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth? Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish? Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth? Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth? Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders? Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast, o'ercharged, to music lendeth? To you! to you! all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
SILVIA From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"
Who is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
CUPID AND CAMPASPE From "Alexander and Campaspe"
Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these, the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple on his chin; All these did my Campaspe win: And last he set her both his eyes - She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?
John Lyly [1554?-1606]
APOLLO'S SONG From "Midas"
My Daphne's hair is twisted gold, Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold, My Daphne's brow enthrones the Graces, My Daphne's beauty stains all faces, On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry, On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry, Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt, And then no heavenlier warmth is felt, My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres, My Daphne's music charms all ears. Fond am I thus to sing her praise; These glories now are turned to bays.
John Lyly [1554?-1606]
"FAIR IS MY LOVE FOR APRIL'S IN HER FACE" From "Perimedes"
Fair is my love for April's in her face, Her lovely breasts September claims his part, And lordly July in her eyes takes place, But cold December dwelleth in her heart; Blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, Accurst that month that hindereth my desire.
Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkle both her eyes, As air perfumed with amber is her breath, Like swelling waves her lovely breasts do rise, As earth, her heart, cold, dateth me to death: Aye me, poor man, that on the earth do live, When unkind earth death and despair doth give!
In pomp sits mercy seated in her face, Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint, Her eyes shine favor, courtesy, and grace, But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint! Therefore my harvest in the grass bears grain; The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
SAMELA From "Menaphon"
Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When washed by Arethusa's Fount they lie, Is fair Samela.
As fair Aurora in her morning-gray, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela.
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela; Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams; Her brows bright arches framed of ebony: Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela; Pallas, in wit, - all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela.
Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
DAMELUS' SONG OF HIS DIAPHENIA
Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are beloved of their dams; - How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.
Diaphenia like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressed, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
Henry Constable [1562-1613]
MADRIGAL
My love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her; For every season she hath dressings fit, For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone.
Unknown
ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW
I saw fair Chloris walk alone, Whilst feathered rain came softly down, As Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower. The wanton snow flew on her breast Like little birds unto their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thawed into a tear; Thence falling on her garment's hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.
William Strode [1602-1645]
"THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"
There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die.
Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet I will love her till I die.
Unknown
CHERRY-RIPE
There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
AMARILLIS
I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed: Give me kind Amarillis, The wanton countrymaid. Nature art disdaineth, Her beauty is her own. Her when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go! But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.
If I love Amarillis, She gives me fruit and flowers: But if we love these ladies, We must give golden showers. Give them gold, that sell love, Give me the Nut-brown lass, Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No.
These ladies must have pillows, And beds by strangers wrought; Give me a bower of willows, Of moss and leaves unbought, And fresh Amarillis, With milk and honey fed; Who, when we court and kiss, She cries, Forsooth, let go: But when we come where comfort is, She never will say No!
Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]
ELIZABETH 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.
Henry Walton [1568-1639]
HER TRIUMPH From "A Celebration of Charis"
See the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than Words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag o' the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]
OF PHYLLIS
In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phyllis beneath an oak Sat milking her fair flock: Among that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, Her hand seemed milk in milk, it was so white.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
A WELCOME
Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring forever.
He that to the voice is near, Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.
He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.
He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.
He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields Never, never shall be missing.
He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never, Shall enjoy a spring forever.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
THE COMPLETE LOVER
For her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.
William Browne [1591-1643?]
RUBIES AND PEARLS
Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say, But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.
Some asked how pearls did grow, and where; Then spoke I to my girl, To part her lips, and showed them there The quarrelets of pearl.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES
Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes! Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, - O how that glittering taketh me!
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]
TO CYNTHIA ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY
Do not conceal those radiant eyes, The starlight of serenest skies; Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, They turn to chaos' endless night!
Do not conceal those tresses fair, The silken snares of thy curled hair; Lest, finding neither gold nor ore, The curious silk-worm work no more.
Do not conceal those breasts of thine, More snow-white than the Apennine; Lest, if there be like cold and frost, The lily be for ever lost.
Do not conceal that fragrant scent, Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent Perfumes; lest, it being suppressed, No spices grow in all the East.
Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice; Lest, music hearing no such thing, The nightingale forget to sing.
Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse, Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Lest that the seas cease to bring forth Gems which from thee have all their worth.
Do not conceal no beauty, grace, That's either in thy mind or face; Lest virtue overcome by vice Make men believe no Paradise.
Francis Kynaston [1587-1642]
SONG
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars 'light That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Thomas Carew [1598?-1639?]
A DEVOUT LOVER
I have a mistress, for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers: I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]
ON A GIRDLE
That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer: My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair! Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!
Edmund Waller [1606-1687]
CASTARA
Like the violet, which alone Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser eye betrayed: For she's to herself untrue Who delights i' the public view
Such is her beauty as no arts Have enriched with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood; She is noblest, being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence, eloquent. Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.