Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 40

Lord! keep me faithful to the trust Which my dear spouse reposed in me: To him now dead preserve me just In all that should performed be!

For though our being man and wife Extendeth only to this life, Yet neither life nor death should end The being of a faithful friend.

peer] companion.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

240. A Welcome

WELCOME, welcome! do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

He that to the voice is near Breaking from your iv'ry pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then...

He that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, then...

He that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then...

He to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, then...

He that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, then...

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

241. The Sirens' Song

STEER, hither steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to pa.s.sengers-- Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.

Fear not your s.h.i.+ps, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on sh.o.r.e, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes.

The compa.s.s Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

--Then come on sh.o.r.e, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

242. The Rose

A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.

But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

G.o.d s.h.i.+eld the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

243. Song

FOR her gait, if she be walking; Be she sitting, I desire her For her state's sake; and admire her For her wit if she be talking; Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.

Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest. Be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I.

Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace, and so approve her, That for everything I love her.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

244. Memory

SO shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath As night they sleeping pa.s.s away.

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

245. In Obitum M.S. Xo Maij, 1614 Epitaphs

MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, Nor Flora's pride!

In thee all flowers and roses spring, Mine only died.

William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643

246. On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke Epitaphs

UNDERNEATH this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learn'd and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

247. Corinna's going a-Maying

GET up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the G.o.d unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree!

Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since, yet you not drest; Nay! not so much as out of bed?

When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.

Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And t.i.tan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimm'd with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love.