Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowèd roof, With antick pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voiced Quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell, Of every star that Heaven doth shew, And every hearb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE (1632-33)
O NIGHTINGALE that on yon blooming spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hopes the Lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet had'st no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
SONG ON MAY MORNING (1632-33)
Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race: Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For, whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed, And, last of all, thy greedy Self consumed,
Then long eternity shall greet our bliss
And joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When everything that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone.
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time!
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC (1633-34)
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ, Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce; And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbèd Song of pure consent, Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured Throne To Him that sits thereon,
With saintly shout and solemn jubily; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow, And the Cherubic host in thousand quires Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms
That we on Earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportioned Sin Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motions swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O, may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
YE flaming Powers, and wingèd Warriors bright, That erst with music, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful Shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along, Through the soft silence of the listening night,—
Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bear Your fiery essence can distil no tear, Burn in your sighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep sorrow,
He who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere
Entered the world, now bleeds to give us ease. Alas! how soon our sin
Sore doth begin
His infancy to seize!
O more exceeding Love, or Law more just? Just Law indeed, but more exceeding Love! For we, by rightful doom remediless,
Were lost in death, till He, that dwelt above High-throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust. Emptied his glory, even to nakedness;
And that great Covenant which we still transgress Intirely satisfied,
And the full wrath beside
Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess,
And seals obedience first with wounding smart
This day; but oh! ere long,
Huge pangs and strong
Will pierce more near his heart.
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield by some Noble Persons of her Family; who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song:
Look, Nymphs and Shepherds, look! What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry, Too divine to be mistook?
To whom our vows and wishes bend: Here our solemn search hath end. Fame, that her high worth to raise Seemed erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse Of detraction from her praise: Less than half we find expressed; Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state she spreads, In circle round her shining throne Shooting her beams like silver threads: This, this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright In the centre of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be, Or the towered Cybele, Mother of a hundred gods? Juno dares not give her odds:
Who had thought this clime had held
A Deity so unparalleled?
As they come forward, the GENIUS OF THE WOOD appears, and, turning toward them, speaks.
Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice, Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskind Nymphs, as great and good. I know this quest of yours and free intent Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great Mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity, And lead ye where ye may more near behold What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold; Which I full oft, midst these shades alone, Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon. For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
« السابقةمتابعة » |