A Thousand and One Gems of English Poetry

And in the heavens write your glorious | Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my

ASTROPHEL (SIR PHILIP
SIDNEY).

'WOODS, hills, and rivers, now are de-
solate,

Sith he is gone, the which them all did grace;

And all the fields do wail their widow state,

joy;

Both you and me, and all the world, he quite

Hath robb'd of joyance, and left sad

annoy.

Joy of the world, and shepherds' pride, was he ;

Shepherds, hope never like again to see.

"O Death! that hast us of such riches reft,

Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done?

What is become of him whose flower here left

Is but the shadow of his likeness gone? Sith death their fairest flower did late Scarce like the shadow of that which he deface:

The fairest flower in field that ever grew
Was Astrophel; that was we all may rue.

"What cruel hand of cursed foe un-
known

Hath cropt the stalk which bore so fair a flower?

Untimely cropt, before it well were
grown,

And clean defaced in untimely hour;
Great loss to all that ever him did see,
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me.

was,

Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.

"But that immortal spirit, which was
deck'd

With all the dowries of celestial grace,
By sovereign choice from th' heavenly
quires select,

And lineally deriv'd from angels' race,
O what is now of it become? aread:
Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead:

"Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die,

"Break now your girlonds, O ye shep-But lives for aye in blissful paradise,

herds' lasses!

Where like a new-born babe it soft doth
lie

In bed of lilies, wrapt in tender wise,
And compass'd all about with roses

sweet,

And dainty violets from head to feet.

"There thousand birds, all of celestial brood,

To him do sweetly carol day and night,
And with strange notes, of him well un
derstood,

Lall him asleep in angel-like delight;
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented

Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.

"But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure

Of their divine aspects, appearing plain,

And kindling love in him above all mea- | The choristers the joyous anthems sing, That all the woods may answer, and thei echo ring.

sure;

Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain:

For what so goodly form he there doth

see

He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free.

"There liveth he in everlasting bliss, Sweet Spirit! never fearing more to die, Ne dreading harm from any foes of his, Ne fearing savage beasts' more cruelty, Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack,

And with vain vows do often call him back.

"But live thou there still, happy, happy Spirit!

And give us leave thee here thus to lament;

Not thee that dost thy heaven's joy in. herit,

But our own selves, that here in dole are drent.

Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,

Mourning in others our own miseries."

THE BRIDAL DAY.

"Open the temple-gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, And all the posts adorn as doth behove, And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,

For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you.
With trembling steps and humble reve-

rence

She cometh in before th' Almighty's view :

Of her, ye virgins! learn obedience, When so ye come into these holy places, To humble your proud faces.

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she

may

The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endless matrimony make; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord, in lively notes, ..he whiles with hollow throats

"Behold whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks And blesses her with his two happy hands, How red the roses flush up in her cheeks! And the pure snow, with goodly vermil stain,

Like crimson dy'd in grain,

That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget their service, and about her fly,
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more
fair

The more they on it stare;
But her sad eyes, still fast'ned on the
ground,

Are governed with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one look to glance awry,
Which may let in a little thought un-
sound.

Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all your band?
Sing, ye sweet angels! Alleluia sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your
echo ring.

"Now all is done: bring home the bride again,

Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gain,

With joyance bring her, and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this, Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast, therefore, now all this live. long day,

This day for ever to me holy is; Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,

Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full: Pour out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withal:

Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal, And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine,

And let the Graces dance unto the rest,

"Now cease, ye damsels! your delights forepast,

Enough it is that all the day was yours; Now day is done, and night is nighing fast, Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers;

Now night is come, now soon her disarray, And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lilies and in violets,

And silken curtains over her display, And odour'd sheets, and arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my fair love does lie, In proud humility;

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took In Tempe, lying on the flow'ry grass, Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was With bathing in the Acidalian brook: Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, And leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lays to sing;

The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

[SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554-1586.]

TO THE MOON.

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face! What!-may it be, that ev'n in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's

case;

I read it in thy looks; thy languished

grace,

For the land or for the sea,
Lasting evermore.

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests, on it beat,
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel.

Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in vain ;
So to thee farewell.

[THOMAS LODGE. 1556-1625.] ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT. LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton, will you?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I the lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if I but sing;
He lends my every lovely thing,
Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting:
Ah, wanton, will you?

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin :
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou softly on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;

Lurk in my eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid! so thou pity me; Spare not, but play thee.

JAMES SHIRLEY.' 1596—1666.]
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our birth and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and
spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant with laurels where they kill; 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,

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!
All heads must come

To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

VICTORIOUS MEN OF EARTH.
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;

Yet you proud monarchs must obey, And mingle with forgotten ashes, when Death calls ye to the croud of common

men.

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