Part 4
Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; 15 Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 20 Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave! _William Shakespeare._
LV
_ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY._
Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, 5 Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’ Here’s an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed 10 That the earth did e’er suck in, Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, ‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’ Here are sands, ignoble things, 15 Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here’s a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. _Francis Beaumont._
LVI
_DEATH’S FINAL CONQUEST._
Victorious men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are; Though you bind-in every shore And your triumphs reach as far As night or day, 5 Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey, And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Each able to undo mankind, 10 Death’s servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill; A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 15 Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. _James Shirley._
LVII
_THE SAME._
The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown 5 Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: 10 But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath 15 When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death’s purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: 20 Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. _James Shirley._
LVIII
_LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE._
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain: The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun; 5 And now I live, and now my life is done!
The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen: 10 My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; 15 And now I die, and now I am but made: The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done! _Chidiock Tychborn._
LIX
_LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION._
E’en such is time; which takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Which in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, 5 Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. _Sir Walter Raleigh._
LX
_SONNET._
Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win; This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 5 And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, May live for ever in felicity: And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love Thee for the same again; 10 And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain. So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought; Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. _Edmund Spenser._
LXI
_THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM._
Jerusalem, my happy home, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbour of the saints! 5 O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrow may be found, No grief, no care, no toil.
In thee no sickness may be seen, Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore; 10 There is no death, nor ugly dole, But Life for evermore.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, 15 But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones, Thy bulwarks diamonds square; Thy gates are of right orient pearl, Exceeding rich and rare. 20
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine; Thy very streets are paved with gold, Surpassing clear and fine.
Thy houses are of ivory, 25 Thy windows crystal clear; Thy tiles are made of beaten gold;-- O God, that I were there!
Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem, Would God I were in thee! 30 Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see!
Thy saints are crowned with glory great; They see God face to face; They triumph still, they still rejoice, 35 Most happy is their case.
We that are here in banishment Continually do moan, We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail, Perpetually we groan. 40
Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall, Our pleasure is but pain, Our joys scarce last the looking on, Our sorrows still remain.
But there they live in such delight, 45 Such pleasure and such play, As that to them a thousand years Doth seem as yesterday.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green; 50 There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound, The flood of Life doth flow; Upon whose banks on every side 55 The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit, And evermore do sing. 60
Jerusalem, my happy home, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! _Anon._
PART THE SECOND.
LXII
_THE HAPPY LIFE._
How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another’s will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are, 5 Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood 10 How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 15 Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend; 20
--This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all. _Sir Henry Wotton._
LXIII
_WINIFREDA._
Away, let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care, Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors 5 With pompous titles grace our blood? We’ll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we’ll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where’er ’tis spoke; 10 And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk.
What though from fortune’s lavish bounty No mighty treasures we possess, We’ll find within our pittance plenty, 15 And be content without excess.
Still shall each returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason, And that’s the only life to live. 20
Through youth and age in love excelling, We’ll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures, 25 While round my knees they fondly clung; To see them look their mother’s features, To hear them lisp their mother’s tongue.
And when with envy time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys, 30 You’ll in your girls again be courted, And I’ll go wooing in my boys. _Anon._
LXIV
_A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW._
Stand still, and I will read to thee A lecture, Love, in love’s philosophy. These three hours that we have spent Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we ourselves produced: 5 But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduced. So whilst our infant loves did grow, Disguises did and shadows flow 10 From us and from our cares; but now it is not so.
That love hath not attained the highest degree, Which is still diligent lest others see; Except our loves at this noon stay, We shall new shadows make the other way. 15 As the first were made to blind Others, these which come behind Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes, If our loves faint, and westwardly decline, To me thou falsely thine, 20 And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. The morning shadows wear away, But these grow longer all the day; But, oh! love’s day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing or full constant light, 25 And his short minute, after noon, is night. _John Donne._
LXV
_SONG._
Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties, orient deep. These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray 5 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; 10 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 15 Fixèd become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west, The phœnix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20 _Thomas Carew._
LXVI
THE PRIMROSE.
Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearled with dew? I will whisper to your ears, 5 The sweets of love are mixt with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break? 10 I will answer, these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. _Robert Herrick._
LXVII
_TRUE LOVELINESS._
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, 5 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, 10 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 slips, 15 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? 20
Eyes can with baleful ardour 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 nought within, 25 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, 30 Which with temptation I would 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 35 That hides his murmurs in the rose,--
My earthly comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit wonned above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 40 _Anon._
LXVIII
_THE ROSE’S MESSAGE._
Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. 5
Tell her that’s young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had’st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 10
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. 15 Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20 _Edmund Waller._
LXIX
_THE ROSES PRIDE._
Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; 5 What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’ art wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
_Sir Richard Fanshawe._
LXX
_TO CASTARA. THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE._
We saw and wooed each other’s eyes, My soul contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice, By which our marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, 5 Profane the temple of delight, And purchase endless penitence With the stol’n pleasure of one night.
Time’s ever ours, while we despise The sensual idol of our clay, 10 For though the suns do set and rise, We joy one everlasting day;
Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent; The troubled stream is still impure; 15 With virtue flies away content.
And though opinions often err, We’ll court the modest smile of fame, For sin’s black danger circles her Who hath infection in her name. 20
Thus when to one dark silent room Death shall our loving coffins thrust, Fame will build columns on our tomb, And add a perfume to our dust. _William Habington._
LXXI
_LOVE’S ANNIVERSARY._
TO THE SUN.
Thou art returned, great light, to that blest hour In which I first by marriage, sacred power, Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame; Which had increased, but that by love’s decree 5 ’Twas such at first, it ne’er could greater be. But tell me, glorious lamp, in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness? I since that have seen The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10 And wither, and the beauty of the field With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher; But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire. _William Habington._
LXXII
_THE SURRENDER._
My once dear Love! hapless that I no more Must call thee so--the rich affection’s store That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent, Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent. We, that did nothing study but the way 5 To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us, and with them set, Must learn the hateful art, how to forget. We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give, Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live 10 Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must, As if not writ in faith, but words and dust. Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make, Witness the chaste desires that never brake Into unruly heats; witness that breast, 15 Which in thy bosom anchored his whole rest, ’Tis no default in us, I dare acquit Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy Us to each other, and Heaven did untie 20 Faster than vows could bind. Oh that the stars, When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars! Since then some higher destinies command, Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand What is past help. The longest date of grief 25 Can never yield a hope of our relief; And though we waste ourselves in moist laments, Tears may drown us, but not our discontents. Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves, That must new fortunes try, like turtle doves 30 Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years. In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself,--so thou again art free; Thou in another, sad as that, resend 35 The truest heart that lover e’er did lend. Now turn from each. So fare our severed hearts, As the divorced soul from her body parts. _Henry King._
LXXIII
_THE BRIDE’S TRAGEDY._
O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my Love wont to gae. I leaned my back unto an aik, 5 I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brak’, Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie, A little time while it is new, 10 But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. Oh! wherefore should I busk my head, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, 15 And says he’ll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be prest by me, Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink, Since my true Love’s forsaken me. 20 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle Death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.
’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 Nor blawing snaw’s inclemency; ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; 30 My Love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel’ in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, I’d locked my heart in a case of gowd, 35 And pinned it with a siller pin. And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee, And I mysel’ were dead and gane, With the green grass growing over me! 40 _Anon._
LXXIV
_BURD HELEN._
I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; Oh that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 5 And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me!
Oh think na but my heart was sair, When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! 10 I laid her down wi’ meikle care On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water-side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, 15 On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, I hackèd him in pieces sma’, For her sake that died for me. 20
O Helen fair, beyond compare! I’ll make a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die.
Oh that I were where Helen lies! 25 Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen’s arms lying, 35 On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies: Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me. 40 _Anon._
LXXV
_LOVE’S ENTERPRISE._
Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, 5 Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place For the glowworm to lie; 10 Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If Love come, he will enter 15 And find out the way.
You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him A coward from his flight; 20 But if she whom Love doth honour Be concealed from the day, Set a thousand guards upon her, Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him 25 By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne’er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may, 30 Blind Love, if so you call him, Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle 35 The phœnix of the east; The lioness, you may move her To give o’er her prey; But you’ll ne’er Stop a lover: He will find out the way. 40
If the earth should part him, He would gallop it o’er; If the seas should o’erthwart him, He would swim to the shore. Should his Love become a swallow, 45 Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way.
There is no striving To cross his intent, 50 There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him, That his true-love doth stay, If death should come and meet him, 55 Love will find out the way. _Anon._
LXXVI
_THE TWA BROTHERS._
There were twa brothers at the scule, And when they got awa’-- ‘Its will ye play at the stane-chucking, Or will ye play at the ba’, Or will ye gae up to yon hill head, 5 And there we’ll warsell a fa’.’