Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, And now was dropt into the western bay: HENRY WOTTON. (1568-1639.) CIV. ON A BANK AS I SAT A-FISHING. From the Reliquiae Wottonianae (1651), in which were printed some poems by Wotton and others, found amongst his papers at his death. These lines are signed H. W. They are quoted in Walton's Compleat Angler, and are said to have been written when Wotton was "beyond seventy years of age", i.e. in 1638-9. ND now all nature seem'd in love; AND The lusty sap began to move; New juice did stir the embracing vines There stood my friend, with patient skill, Already were the eaves possess'd The showers were short, the weather mild, And now, though late, the modest rose cv. A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S This is in the Reliquiae Wottonianae, but signed Ignoto. It is quoted in Walton's Compleat Angier, as "doubtless made either by [Sir H. Wotton] or by a lover of angling". QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly to fond worldlings' sports, Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still, And sorrows only real be! Fly from our country pastimes! fly, Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see Peace, and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals! did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers, Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering care could never tempest make, Saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance But of our kids, that frisk and prance: Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are butting one the other; Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found, Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. Here are no false entrapping baits, Unless it be The fond credulity Of silly fish, which, worldling-like, still look Nor envy, unless among The birds, for prize of their sweet song. Go! let the diving negro seek For gems hid in some forlorn creek; We all pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Blest, silent groves! O may ye be May pure contents For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these And peace still slumber by these purling fountains! Find when we come a-fishing here. ROBERT HERRICK. (1594-1674.) CVI. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. This and the four following pieces are taken from the volume called Hesperides (1648), in which all Herrick's verse, secular and divine, first appeared. They were not improbably written while the poet was vicar of Dean Prior, from 1629 to 1648. Most of his days were spent in cities, but the Hesperides show the inspiration of that country life, which he found so uncongenial, in 'loathed Devonshire'. The best modern edition of Herrick's poems is that by Mr. A. W. Pollard, in the Muses' Library. GET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bow'd towards the east Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 't is sin, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. |