Part 4
She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet run still astray If to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft virtue splits her mast; And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast. Virtue safely cannot sit Where vice is enthroned for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night. O'er that darkness whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
She her throne makes reason climb, While wild passions captive lie; And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly; All her vows religious be, And she vows her love to me.
William Habington [1605-1654]
TO ARAMANTHA That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
Aramantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' east, To wanton in that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.
Do not, then, wind up that light In ribbons, and o'er-cloud in night, Like the sun in's early ray; But shake your head and scatter day.
Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]
CHLOE DIVINE
Chloe's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, And Venus in her arms.
Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine; And yet 'tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine.
Thomas D'Urfey [1653-1723]
MY PEGGY
My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay: My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm na very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her at The wauking o' the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene'er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare: My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld; But she gars a' my spirits glow At wauking o' the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look doun on a' the toun, That I look doun upon a croun: My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blithe and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As waulking o' the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confessed, By a' the rest that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld.
Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]
SONG From "Acis and Galatea"
O ruddier than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting luster; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster!
John Gay [1685-1732]
"TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE"
When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before - The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
George Lyttleton [1709-1773]
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.
Apollo's wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day; She sang; - amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared. She played; - the Muses from their hill, Wondered who thus had stole their skill.
Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And, t'other day, she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair: To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms!
Charles Wyndham [1710-1763]
AMORET
If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fixed in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell - What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet - she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen - We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret, in all her prime.
Mark Akenside [1721-1770]
SONG
The shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair: I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air.
A damask cheek, an ivory arm, Shall ne'er my wishes win: Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within.
A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love.
These are the soul of beauty's frame; Without whose vital aid Unfinished all her features seem, And all her roses dead.
But ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view, With every image of delight, With graces ever new:
Of power to charm the greatest woe, The wildest rage control, Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, And rapture through the soul.
Their power but faintly to express All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia's face, And read it perfect there.
Mark Akenside [1721-1770]
KATE OF ABERDEEN
The silver moon's enamored beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go balmy sleep ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid of love; And see - the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, - 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh, She claims a virgin Queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
John Cunningham [1729-1773]
SONG
Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew? Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?
A thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me.
John Shaw [1559-1625]
CHLOE
It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay; One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.
The feathered people you might see, Perched all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET"
As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.
It were more meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
THE LOVER'S CHOICE
You, Damon, covet to possess The nymph that sparkles in her dress; Would rustling silks and hoops invade, And clasp an armful of brocade.
Such raise the price of your delight Who purchase both their red and white, And, pirate-like, surprise your heart With colors of adulterate art.
Me, Damon, me the maid enchants Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints; A modest blush adorns her face, Her air an unaffected grace.
No art she knows, or seeks to know; No charm to wealthy pride will owe; No gems, no gold she needs to wear; She shines intrinsically fair.
Thomas Bedingfield [ ? -1613]
RONDEAU REDOUBLE
My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favor glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand.
All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favor glorifies the land.
What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.
John Payne [1842-1916]
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET"
My love she's but a lassie yet, A lightsome lovely lassie yet; It scarce wad do To sit an' woo Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
But there's a braw time coming yet, When we may gang a-roaming yet; An' hint wi' glee O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
She's neither proud nor saucy yet, She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; But just a jinking, Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But O, her artless smile's mair sweet Than hinny or than marmalete; An' right or wrang, Ere it be lang, I'll bring her to a parley yet.
I'm jealous o' what blesses her, The very breeze that kisses her, The flowery beds On which she treads, Though wae for ane that misses her.
Then O, to meet my lassie yet, Up in yon glen sae grassy yet; For all I see Are naught to me, Save her that's but a lassie yet.
James Hogg [1770-1835]
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE
The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]
MARGARET AND DORA
Margaret's beauteous - Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my hearts of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter?
Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech.
Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet.
Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]
DAGONET'S CANZONET
A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And sunshine was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remembered still the light; My soul, was she not fair!
But for her eyes - they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself transmuted there Light blue, or deeper blue; My soul, was she not fair!
The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: O soul, was she not fair!
Ernest Rhys [1859-
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING"
Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer: - A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee; And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!
Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]
"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"
It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed: -
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, -
These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer sips Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardor burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows - there's naught within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find, -
One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, -
My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit won above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
George Darley [1795-1846]
SONG
She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.
Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]
SONG
A violet in her lovely hair, A rose upon her bosom fair! But O, her eyes A lovelier violet disclose, And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That's 'neath the skies.
A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command; But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth Can give to song.
And thus she moves in tender light, The purest ray, where all is bright, Serene, and sweet; And sheds a graceful influence round, That hallows e'en the very ground Beneath her feet!
Charles Swain [1801-1874]
EILEEN AROON
When like the early rose, Eileen Aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem? - Eileen Aroon!
Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed harp's moan? O, it is truth alone, - Eileen Aroon!
When like the rising day, Eileen Aroon! Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon! What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know: - Eileen Aroon!
I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon! I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon! Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade, - Eileen Aroon!
Who in the song so sweet? Eileen Aroon! Who in the dance so fleet? Eileen Aroon! Dear were her charms to me Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, - Eileen Aroon!
Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon! What should her lover do? Eileen Aroon! Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again, - Eileen Aroon!
Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon! Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, - Eileen Aroon!
Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]
ANNIE LAURIE
Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true - Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on - That e'er the sun shone on - And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet - Her voice is low and sweet - And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
William Douglas [1672?-1748]
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!
Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]
"A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE" From "Maud"
I A voice by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land.
II Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.
III Silence, beautiful voice! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find. Still! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice.