Hail Marriage! everlasting be thy reign! The chain of being is thy golden chain. From hence mankind, a growing race depend, Began with Nature, shall with Nature end. The mists, which stain'd thy lustre, break away, In glory lessen, and refine to day:
No more the jest of wits, of fools the scorn, Which God made sacred, and which priests adorn, "Ascend the bed, while genial Nature pours Her balmy blessings round and nectar-show'rs. And lo! the future opens on my eyes, I see soft buds, and smiling flow'rs arise: The human blossoms every charm display, Unfold their sweets, and beautify the day. The father's virtues in the sons combine; The mother's graces in the daughters shine. So where an angel spreads his dove-like wing Young laurels sprout, and tender myrtles spring; Sweet dews descending consecrate the ground, And open a new Paradise around!
I see!"-But here the scene which blaz'd behind Her fancy dazzled, and dissolv'd his mind. He woke: yet still he thinks he sees and hears; Till real sounds salutes his ravish'd ears: "-Arise! the bride invites thee to be blest?" He rose. But silence only speaks the rest.
-Nunc formosissimus annus.
As Spenser is the most descriptive and florid of all our English writers, I attempted to imitate his manner in the following vernal poem. I have been very sparing of the antiquated words, which are too frequent in most of the imitations of this author; however, I have introduced a few here and there, which are explain'd at the bottom of each page where they occur. Shakspeare is the poet of Nature, in adapting the affections and passions to his characters; and Spenser in describing her delightful scenes and rural beauties. His lines are most musically sweet; and his descriptions most delicately abundant, even to a wantonness of painting: but still it is the music and painting of Nature. We find no ambitious ornaments, or epigrammatical turns, in his writings, but a beautiful simplicity; which pleases far above the glitter of pointed wit. I endeavoured to avoid the affectation of the one, without any hopes of attaining the graces of the other kind of writing.
Te sequor, O nostræ gentis decus! inque tuis
myself in this canto to take Spenser for my model, I chose the stanza; which I think adds both a sweetness and solemnity at the same time to subjects of this rural and flowery nature. The most descriptive of our old poets have always used it from Chaucer down to Fairfax, and even long after him. I followed Fletcher's measure in his Purple Island; a poem printed at Cambridge in twelve cantos, in quarto, scarce heard of in this age, yet the best in the allegorical way, (next to the Fairy Queen) in the English language. The Alexandrine line, I think, is peculiarly graceful at the end, and is an improvement on Shakspeare's Venus and Adonis. After all, Spenser's hymns will excuse me for using this measure; and Scaliger in the third book of his Poetics, tells us, were sung to the lyre, the pipe, or some musical (from Dydimus) that the hymns of the Athenians instrument: and this, of all other kinds of verse is, certainly, lyrical. But enough of the stanza: for (as sir William Davenant observes in his admirable preface to Gondibert) numbers in verse, like distinct kinds of music, are composed to the uncertain and different taste of several ears. 1 hope I have no apology to make for describing the beauties, the pleasures, and the loves of the season in too tender or too florid a manner. The nature of the subject required a luxuriousness of versification, and a softness of sentiment; but they are pure and chaste at the same time: otherwise this canto had neither been ever written, or offered to the public. If the sentiments and verse be florid and tender, I shall excuse myself in the words of Virgil (though not in his sense). -Nunc mollissima fandi Tempora!
ETHEREAL. daughter of the lusty Spring, Shall I, unblam'd, presume of thee to sing, And sweet Favonius, ever-gentle May! Thy genial spirit mantles in my brain; And with thy living colours gild my lay? My numbers languish in a softer vein: I pant, too emulous, to flow in Spenser's strain.
Say, mild Aurora of the blooming year, When whirling winds the howling forest tear, With storms when winter blackens Nature's face; And shake the solid mountains from their base: Say, what refulgent chambers of the sky For which the nations pine, and Earth's fair chil- Veil thy beloved glories from the eye, [dren die?
Where Leda's twins', forth from their diamond Alternate, o'er the night their beams divide; tow'r, From winter-rage, thou choosest to abide. In light embosom'd, happy, and secure
Blest residence! For, there, as poets tell, The powers of poetry and wisdom2 dwell; Apollo wakes the arts; the Muses strike the shell.
Certes 3 o'er Rhedicyna's laurel'd mead, (For ever spread, ye laurels, green and new!) The brother-stars their gracious nurture shed, And secret blessings of poetic-dew.
They bathe their horses in the learned flood, With flame recruited for th' etherial road; And deem fair Isis' swans fair as their father-god.
No sooner April, trim'd with girlands 5 gay, Rains fragrance o'er the world, and kindly show'rs; But, in the eastern-pride of beauty, May, To gladden Earth, forsakes her heav'nly bow'rs, Restoring Nature from her palsy'd state. April, retire; ne longer, Nature, wait: Son may she issue from the Morning's golden gate.
Come, bounteous May! in fulness of thy might, Lead briskly on the mirth-infusing Hours, All-recent from the bosom of delight, With nectar nurtur'd; and involv'd in flow'rs: By Spring's sweet blush,by Nature's teeming womb; By Hebe's dimply smile, by Flora's bloom;
By Venus'-self (for Venus'-self demands thee) come!
By the warm sighs, in dewy even-tide, Of melting maidens, in the wood-bind-groves, To pity loosen'd, soften'd down from pride; By billing turtles, and by cooing doves; By the youth's plainings stealing on the air, (For youths will plain, tho' yielding be the fair) Hither, to bless the maidens and the youths, re- pair.
With dew bespangled, by the hawthorn-buds, With freshness breathing, by the daisy'd plains, By the mix'd music of the warbling woods, And jovial roundelays of nymphs and swains; In thy full energy, and rich array, Delight of Earth and Heav'n! O blessed May! From Heav'n descend to Earth: on Earth vouch- safe to stay.
She comes!-A silken camus8, emral'd-green, Gracefully loose, adown her shoulders flows, (Fit to enfold the limbs of Paphos' queen) Aad with the labours of the needle glows, Purfled by Nature's hand! The amorous Air And musky-western Breezes fast repair,
Her mantle proud to swell, and wanton with her hair.
Love-sick with odours !-Now to order roll'd, It melts upon her bosom's dainty mould, Or, curling round her waist, disparts its wavy gold.
Young-circling roses, blushing, round them throw The sweet abundance of their purple rays, And lilies, dip'd in fragrance, freshly blow, With blended beauties, in her angel-face The humid radiance beaming from her eyes The air and seas illumes, the earth and skies; And open, where she smiles, the sweets of Para- dise.
On Zephyr's wing the laughing goddess view, Distilling balm. She cleaves the buxom Air, Attended by the silver-footed Dew,
The ravages of Winter to repair.
She gives her naked bosom to the Gales, Her naked bosom down the ether sails;
Her bosom breathes delight; her breath the Spring exhales.
All as the phenix, in Arabian skies, New-burnish'd from his spicy funeral pyres, At large, in roseal1 undulation, flies;
His plumage dazzles and the gazer tires; Around their king the plumy nations wait, Attend his triumph, and augment his state: He tow'ring, claps his wings, and wins th' ethe- real height.
So round this phenix of the gawdy year A thousand, nay ten thousand Sports and Smiles, Fluttering in gold, along the hemisphere, Her praises chant; her praises glad the isles. Conscious of her approach (to deck her bow'rs) Earth from her fruitful lap and bosom pours A waste of springing sweets, and voluntary flow'rs. Narcissus fair, in snowy velvet gown'd; Ah foolish! still to love the fountain-brim: Sweet Hyacinth3, by Phoebus erst1 bemoan'd; And tulip, flaring in her powder'd trim. Whate'er, Armida 5, in thy gardens blew; Whate'er the Sun inhales, or sips the dew; Whate'er compose the chaplet on Ianthe's brow.
Pliny tells us, lib. 11, that the phenix is about the bigness of an eagle: the feathers round the neck shining like gold, the body of a purple colour, the tail blue with feathers resembling roses. See Claudian's fine poem on that subject, and Marcellus Donatus, who has a short dissertation on the phenix in his Observations on Tacitus. Annal. Lib. 6. Westley on Job, and sir Tho. Brown's Vulgar Errours.
2 A beautiful youth who, beholding his face in a fountain, fell in love with himself, and pining away was changed into a flower, which bears his name. See Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. 3.
3 Beloved and turned into a flower by Apollo. See the story in Ovid. Met. Lib. 10. There is likewise a curious dialogue in Lucian betwixt Mercury and Apolio on this subject. Servius in his Notes on Virgil's second Bucolic takes the hyacinth to be the vaccinium of the Latins, bearing some similitude with the name.
4 Formerly: long ago,
5 See Tasso's Il Goffredo. Canto 16,
He who undaz'd can wander o'er her face, May gain upon the solar-blaze at noon!- What more than female sweetness, and a grace Peculiar! save, Ianthe, thine alone, Ineffable effusion of the day!
So very much the same, that lovers say, May is lanthe; or the dear Ianthe, May.
So far as doth the harbinger of day The lesser lamps of night in sheen 7 excel; So far in sweetness and in beauty May Above all other months doth bear the bell. So far as May doth other months exceed, So far in virtue and in good lihead 8,
From the wide altar of the foodful Earth [roll; The flow'rs, the herbs, the plants, their incense The orchards swell the ruby-tinctur'd birth; The vermil-gardens breath the spicy soul. Grateful to May, the nectar-spirit flies, The wafted clouds of lavish'd odours rise, The Zephyr's balmy burthen, worthy of the skies.
The bee, the golden daughter of the Spring, From mead to mead, in wanton labour, roves, And loads its little thigh, or gilds its wing With all the essence of the flushing groves: Extracts the aromatic soul of flow'rs, And, humming in delight, its waxen bow'rs
Above all other nymphs Ianthe bears the meed9. Fills with the luscious spoils, and lives ambrosial
Welcome! as to a youthful poet, wine, To fire his fancy, and enlarge his soul: He weaves the laurel-chaplet with the vine, And grows immortal as he drains the bowl. Welcome! as beauty to the lovesick swain, For which he long had sigh'd, but sigh'd in vain; He darts into her arms; quick-vanishes his pain.
The drowsy elements, arous'd by thee, Roll to harmonious measures, active all! Earth, water, air, and fire, with feeling glee, Exult to celebrate thy festival.
Fire glows intenser; softer, blows the air; More smooth the waters flow; earth smiles more fair:
Earth, water, air and fire, thy glad'ning impulse share.
Touch'd by thee, May, the flocks and lusty droves That low in pastures, or on mountains bleat, Revive their frolics and renew their loves. Stung to the marrow with a generous heat, The stately courser, bounding o'er the plain, Shakes to the winds the honours of his mane, (High-arch'd his neck) and, snuffing, hopes the dappled train.
The aëreal songsters sooth the list'ning groves: The mellow thrush, the ouzle sweetly shrill, And little linnet celebrate their loves In hawthorn valley, or on tufted hill; The soaring lark, the lowly nightingale, A thorn her pillow, trills her doleful tale, And melancholy music dies along the dale.
This gay exuberance of gorgeous Spring, The gilded mountain, and the herbag'd vale, The woods that blossom, and the birds that sing, The murmuring fountain and the breathing dale: The dale, the fountains, birds and woods delight, The vales, the mountains and the Spring invite, Yet unadorn'd by May, no longer charm the sight.
When Nature laughs around, shall man alone, Thy image, hang (ah me!) the sickly head? When Nature sings, shall Nature's glory groan, And languish for the pittance poor of bread! O may the man that shall his image scorn, Alive, be ground with hunger, most forlorn, Die unanell'd3, and dead, by dogs and kites be torn.
Curs'd may he be (as if he were not so.) Nay doubly curs'd be such a breast of steel, Which never melted at another's woe, Nor tenderness of bowels knew to feel. His heart is black as Hell, in flowing store Who hears the needy crying at his door, Who hears them cry, ne recks; but suffers them be poor.
But blest, O more than doubly blest be he! Let honour crown him and eternal rest, Whose bosom, the sweet fount of charity, Flows out to noursle 5 innocence distrest. His ear is open to the widow's cries, His hand the orphan's cheek of sorrow drys; Like Mercy's self he looks on want with Pity's
2 Blackbird, 3 Without a funeral knell. Nor is concerned. 5 To nurse.
In this blest season, pregnant with delight, Ne may the boading owl with screeches wound The solemn silence of the quiet night, Ne croaking raven, with unhallow'd sound, Ne damned ghost affray with deadly yell The waking lover, rais'd by mighty spell,
To pale the stars, till Hesper shine it back to Hell.
Ne witches rifle gibbets, by the Moon, (With horrour winking, trembling all with fear) Of many a clinking chain, and canker'd bone: Nor imp in visionary shape appear, To blast the thriving verdure of the plain; Ne let hobgoblin, ne the ponk, profane [ing brain. With shadowy glare the light, and mad the burst-
Yet fairy-elves (so ancient custom's will8) The green-gown'd fairy elves, by starry sheen 9, May gambol or in valley or on hill, And leave their footsteps on the circled green. Full lightly trip it, dapper Mab, around; Full featly, Ob'ron, thou, o'er grass-turf bound: Mab brushes off no dew-drops, Ob'ron prints no ground.
Ne1 bloody rumours violate the ear, Of cities sack'd, and kingdoms desolate, With plague or sword, with pestilence or war; Ne rueful murder stain thy era-date; Ne shameless Cafumny, for fell despight, The foulest fiend that e'er blasphem'd the light, At lovely lady rail, nor grin at courteous knight.
Ne wailing in our streets nor fields be heard, Ne voice of Misery assault the heart; Ne fatherless from table be debar'd; Ne piteous tear from eye of Sorrow start; But Plenty, pour thyself into the bowl Of bounty-head; may never Want control
And while the virgins hail thee with their voice, Heaping thy crowded way with greens and flow'rs, And in the fondness of their heart rejoice To sooth, with dance and song, thy gentler hours; Indulge the season, and with sweet repair Embay thy limbs, the vernal beauties share: Then blaze in arms again, renew'd for future war.
Britannia's happy isle derives from May The choicest blessings Liberty bestows: When royal Charles (for ever hail the day!) In mercy triumph'd o'er ignoble foes. Restor'd with him, the Arts the drooping head Gaily again uprcar'd; the Muses' shade [array'd. With fresher honours bloom'd, in greener trim
And thou, the goodliest blossom of our isles! Great Frederic's and his Augusta's joy, Thy native month approv'd with infant smiles, Sweet as the siniling May, imperial boy! Britannia hopes thee for her future lord, Lov'd as thy parents, only not ador'd! Whene'er a George is born, Charles is again re- stor'd.
O may his father's pant for finer fame, And boundless bountyhead to humankind; His grandsire's glory, and his uncle's name, Renown'd in war! inflame his ardent mind: So arts shall flourish 'neath his equal sway, So arms the hostile nations wide affray; The laurel, Victory; Apollo, wear the bay.
Through kind infusion of celestial pow'r, The dullard-Earth May quick'neth with delight: Full suddenly the seeds of joy recure3 Elastic spring, and force within empight 4. If senseless elements invigorate prove By genial May, and heavy matter move,
That good, good-honest man, who feeds the fa- Shall shepherdesses cease, shall shepherds fail to
Now let the trumpet's martial thunders sleep; The viol wake alone, and tender flute :
The Phrygian lyre with sprightly fingers sweep, And, Erato, dissolve the Lydian-lute.
Yet Clio frets, and burns with honest pain, To rouze and animate the martial strain, While British banners flame o'er many a purpled plain.
The trumpet sleeps, but soon for thee shall wake, Illustious chief! to sound thy mighty name, (Snatch'd from the malice of Lethean-lake) Triumphant-swelling from the mouth of Fame. Mean while, disdain not (so the virgins pray) This rosy-crown, with myrtle wove and bay; (Too humble crown I ween) the offering of May.
Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round, Purpled with health, as in the greenwood-shade, Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground And deftly 5 lead the dance along the glade! (O may no show'rs your merry-makes affray!) Hail at the op'ning, at the closing day, All hail, ye bounibels, to your own season, May.
Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd-swains, But lend to dance and song the liberal May, And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains, Your flocks shall nibble, and your lambkins play, Frisking in glee. To May your girlands bring, And ever and anon her praises sing:
The woods shall echo May, with May the valleys ring.
Here Venus revels, here maintains her court In light festivity and gladsome game: The young and gay, in frolic troops resort, Withouten censure, and withouten blame. In pleasure steep'd, and dancing in delight, Night steals upon the day, the day, on night: Each knight his lady loves; each lady loves her knight.
Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, May! Unconscious of Love's nectar-tickling sting, And, unrelenting, cold to Beauty's ray; Beauty the mother and the child of Spring! Beauty and Wit declare the sexes even; Beauty, to woman, Wit to man is given; Neither the slime of Earth, but each the fire of Heav'n.
Alliance sweet! let Beauty Wit approve, As flow'rs to sunshine ope the ready breast: Wit Beauty loves, and nothing else can love: The best alone is grateful to the best. Perfection has no other parallel !
Can light, with darkness; doves with ravens dwell?
As soon, perdie 5, shall Heav'n communion hold with Hell.
I sing to you, who love alone for love: For gold the beauteous fools (O fools besure!) Can win; tho' brighter Wit shall never inove: But Folly is to Wit the certain cure, Curs'd be the men, (or be they young or old) Curs'd be the women, who themselves have sold To the detested bed for lucre base of gold.
Not Julia such: she higher honour deem'd To languish in the Sulmo poet's arms, Than, by the potentates of Earth esteem'd, To give to sceptres and to crowns her charms. Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa's vale She list'ned to her Petrarch's amorous tale. But did poor Colin Clout o'er Rosalind prevail?
Howe'er that be; in Acidalian shade, Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day: No dreams of banishment his loves invade; Encircled in eternity of May,
Here Petrarch with his Laura, soft reclin'd On violets, gives sorrow to the wind: And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind.
5 An old word for asserting any thing. 6 Spenser.
7 These three celebrated poets and lovers were all of them unhappy in their amours. Ovid was banished on account of his passion for Julia. | Death deprived Petrarch of his beloved Laura very early; as he himself tells us in his account of his own life. These are his words:" Amore acerrimo, sed unico & honesto, in adolescentia laboravi, & diutius laborassem, nisi jam tepescentem ignem mors acerba, sed utilis, extinxisset." See his works, Basil, fol. tom. 1. Yet others say, she married another person; which is scarce probable; since Petrarch lamented her death for ten years afterwards, as appears from Sonetto 313, with a most uncommon ardour of passion. Thomasinus in his curious book, called Petrarcha Redivivus, has given us two prints of Laura, with an account of her family, their loves, and his sweet retirement in Vaucluse. As for Spenser, we may conclude that his love for Rosalinda proved unsuccessful from his pathetical complaints, in several of his poems, of her cruelty. The author, therefore, thought it only a poetical kind of justice to reward them in this imaginary retreat of lovers, for the misfortunes they really suffered here on account of their passion.
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