Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 42

255. The Funeral Rites of the Rose

THE Rose was sick and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood: Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept: The holy sisters, some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung.

But ah! what sweet smelt everywhere, As Heaven had spent all perfumes there.

At last, when prayers for the dead And rites were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb.

trental] services for the dead, of thirty ma.s.ses.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

256. Cherry-Ripe

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy.

If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There Where my Julia's lips do smile; There 's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

257. A Meditation for his Mistress

YOU are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosed well In amber or some crystal sh.e.l.l, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

258. Delight in Disorder

A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

259. Upon Julia's Clothes

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, --O how that glittering taketh me!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

260. The Bracelet: To Julia

WHY I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this silken twist; For what other reason is 't But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art?

But thy bond-slave is my heart: 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me: --I am bound and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

261. To Daisies, not to shut so soon

SHUT not so soon; the dull-eyed night Has not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherd's star s.h.i.+ne like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye, And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

262. The Night-piece: To Julia

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there 's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee c.u.mber: What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

263. To Music, to becalm his Fever

CHARM me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That, being ravish'd, hence I go Away in easy slumbers.

Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou power that canst sever From me this ill, And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire Into a gentle licking flame, And make it thus expire.

Then make me weep My pains asleep; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptim o'er the flowers.

Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For Heaven.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674