Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 22

For joy the birds with boulden throats Against his visage sheen Take up their kindly musick notes In woods and gardens green.

The dew upon the tender crops, Like pearlis white and round, Or like to melted silver drops, Refres.h.i.+s all the ground.

The misty reek, the clouds of rain, From tops of mountains skails, Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapours take the vales.

The ample heaven of fabrick sure In cleanness does surpa.s.s The crystal and the silver pure, Or clearest polisht gla.s.s.

The time so tranquil is and still That nowhere shall ye find, Save on a high and barren hill, An air of peeping wind.

All trees and simples, great and small, That balmy leaf do bear, Than they were painted on a wall No more they move or steir.

Calm is the deep and purple sea, Yea, smoother than the sand; The waves that weltering wont to be Are stable like the land.

So silent is the cessile air That every cry and call The hills and dales and forest fair Again repeats them all.

The flourishes and fragrant flowers, Through Phoebus' fostering heat, Refresht with dew and silver showers Cast up an odour sweet.

The cloggit busy humming bees, That never think to drone, On flowers and flourishes of trees Collect their liquor brown.

The Sun, most like a speedy post With ardent course ascends; The beauty of the heavenly host Up to our zenith tends.

The burning beams down from his face So fervently can beat, That man and beast now seek a place To save them from the heat.

The herds beneath some leafy tree Amidst the flowers they lie; The stable s.h.i.+ps upon the sea Tend up their sails to dry.

With gilded eyes and open wings The c.o.c.k his courage shows; With claps of joy his breast he dings, And twenty times he crows.

The dove with whistling wings so blue The winds can fast collect; Her purple pens turn many a hue Against the sun direct.

Now noon is went; gone is midday, The heat doth slake at last; The sun descends down West away, For three of clock is past.

The rayons of the sun we see Diminish in their strength; The shade of every tower and tree Extendit is in length.

Great is the calm, for everywhere The wind is setting down; The reek throws right up in the air From every tower and town.

The gloming comes; the day is spent; The sun goes out of sight; And painted is the occident With purple sanguine bright.

Our west horizon circular From time the sun be set Is all with rubies, as it were, Or roses red o'erfret.

What pleasure were to walk and see, Endlong a river clear, The perfect form of every tree Within the deep appear.

O then it were a seemly thing, While all is still and calm, The praise of G.o.d to play and sing With cornet and with shalm!

All labourers draw home at even, And can to other say, Thanks to the gracious G.o.d of heaven, Which sent this summer day.

shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened. boulden]

swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples]

herbs. cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms.

George Chapman. 1560-1634

107. Bridal Song

O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!

Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reaped harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.

Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face; And all thy crowned flames command For torches to our nuptial grace.

Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.

Robert Southwell. 1561-95

108. Times go by Turns

THE lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; Times go by turns and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides hath equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coa.r.s.est web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, No endless night yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay: Thus with succeeding turns G.o.d tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crost, Few all they need, but none have all they wish; Unmeddled joys here to no man befall: Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

unmeddled] unmixed.

Robert Southwell. 1561-95

109. The Burning Babe

AS I in h.o.a.ry winter's night Stood s.h.i.+vering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright Did in the air appear; Who, scorched with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though His floods should quench His flames, Which with His tears were bred: 'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born In fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire but I!

'My faultless breast the furnace is; The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, And Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood.'

With this He vanish'd out of sight And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind That it was Christmas Day.

Henry Constable. 1562?-1613?

110. On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney

GIVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries, If they, importune, interrupt thy song, Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st among The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies.

Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes, That since I saw thee now it is so long, And yet the tears that unto thee belong To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.

I did not know that thou wert dead before; I did not feel the grief I did sustain; The greater stroke astonisheth the more; Astonishment takes from us sense of pain; I stood amazed when others' tears begun, And now begin to weep when they have done.

Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619

111. Love is a Sickness