Hero and Leander and Other Poems Part 4

Love's glory doth in darkness s.h.i.+ne.

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.

No need have we of factious Day, To cast, in envy of thy peace, Her b.a.l.l.s of discord in thy way: Here Beauty's day doth never cease; Day is abstracted here, And varied in a triple sphere.

Hero, Alcmane, Mya, so outs.h.i.+ne thee, Ere thou come here, let Thetis thrice refine thee.

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

The evening star I see: Rise, youths! the evening star Helps Love to summon war; Both now embracing be.

Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!

Now the bright marigolds, that deck the skies, Ph?bus' celestial flowers, that, contrary To his flowers here, ope when he shuts his eye, And shut when he doth open, crown your sports: Now Love in Night, and Night in Love exhorts Courts.h.i.+p and dances: all your parts employ, And suit Night's rich expansure with your joy.

Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes: Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!

Rise, virgins! let fair nuptial loves enfold Your fruitless b.r.e.a.s.t.s: the maidenheads ye hold Are not your own alone, but parted are; Part in disposing them your parents share, And that a third part is; so must ye save Your loves a third, and you your thirds must have.

Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes: Rise, youths! Love's rites claim more than banquets; rise!

Herewith the amorous spirit, that was so kind To Teras' hair, and comb'd it down with wind.

Still as it, comet-like, brake from her brain, Would needs have Teras gone, and did refrain To blow it down: which, staring up, dismay'd The timorous feast; and she no longer stay'd; But, bowing to the bridegroom and the bride, Did, like a shooting exhalation, glide Out of their sights: the turning of her back Made them all shriek, it look'd so ghastly black.

O hapless Hero! that most hapless cloud Thy soon-succeeding tragedy foreshow'd.

Thus all the nuptial crew to joys depart; But much-wrung Hero stood h.e.l.l's blackest dart: Whose wound because I grieve so to display, I use digressions thus t'increase the day.

THE SIXTH SESTIAD

THE ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH SESTIAD

Leucote flies to all the Winds, And from the Fates their outrage blinds, That Hero and her love may meet.

Leander, with Love's complete fleet Mann'd in himself, puts forth to seas; When straight the ruthless Destinies, With Ate, stirs the winds to war Upon the h.e.l.lespont: their jar Drowns poor Leander. Hero's eyes, Wet witnesses of his surprise, Her torch blown out, grief casts her down Upon her love, and both doth drown: In whose just ruth the G.o.d of seas Transforms them to th' Acanthides.

No longer could the Day nor Destinies Delay the Night, who now did frowning rise Into her throne; and at her humorous b.r.e.a.s.t.s Visions and Dreams lay sucking: all men's rests Fell like the mists of death upon their eyes, Day's too-long darts so kill'd their faculties.

The Winds yet, like the flowers, to cease began; For bright Leucote, Venus' whitest swan, That held sweet Hero dear, spread her fair wings, Like to a field of snow, and message brings From Venus to the Fates, t'entreat them lay Their charge upon the Winds their rage to stay, That the stern battle of the seas might cease, And guard Leander to his love in peace.

The Fates consent;--ay me, dissembling Fates!

They show'd their favours to conceal their hates, And draw Leander on, lest seas too high Should stay his too obsequious destiny: Who like a fleering slavish parasite, In warping profit or a traitorous sleight, Hoops round his rotten body with devotes, And p.r.i.c.ks his descant face full of false notes; Praising with open throat, and oaths as foul As his false heart, the beauty of an owl; Kissing his skipping hand with charmed skips, That cannot leave, but leaps upon his lips Like a c.o.c.k-sparrow, or shameless quean Sharp at a red-lipp'd youth, and naught doth mean Of all his antic shows, but doth repair More tender fawns, and takes a scatter'd hair From his tame subject's shoulder; whips and calls For everything he lacks; creeps 'gainst the walls With backward humbless, to give needless way: Thus his false fate did with Leander play.

First to black Eurus flies the white Leucote.

(Born 'mongst the negroes in the Levant sea, On whose curl'd head[s] the glowing sun doth rise,) And shows the sovereign will of Destinies, To have him cease his blasts; and down he lies.

Next, to the fenny Notus course she holds, And found him leaning, with his arms in folds, Upon a rock, his white hair full of showers; And him she chargeth by the fatal powers, To hold in his wet cheeks his cloudy voice.

To Zephyr then that doth in flowers rejoice: To snake-foot Boreas next she did remove, And found him tossing of his ravish'd love, To heat his frosty bosom hid in snow; Who with Leucote's sight did cease to blow.

Thus all were still to Hero's heart's desire; Who with all speed did consecrate a fire Of flaming gums and comfortable spice, To light her torch, which in such curious price She held, being object to Leander's sight, That naught but fires perfum'd must give it light.

She lov'd it so, she griev'd to see it burn, Since it would waste, and soon to ashes turn: Yet, if it burn'd not, 'twere not worth her eyes; What made it nothing, gave it all the prize.

Sweet torch, true gla.s.s of our society!

What man does good, but he consumes thereby?

But thou wert lov'd for good, held high, given show; Poor virtue loath'd for good, obscur'd, held low: Do good, be pin'd,--be deedless good, disgrac'd; Unless we feed on men, we let them fast.

Yet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend: When bees make wax, Nature doth not intend It should be made a torch; but we, that know The proper virtue of it, make it so, And, when 'tis made, we light it: nor did Nature Propose one life to maids; but each such creature Makes by her soul the best of her true state, Which without love is rude, disconsolate, And wants love's fire to make it mild and bright, Till when, maids are but torches wanting light.

Thus 'gainst our grief, not cause of grief, we fight: The right of naught is glean'd, but the delight.

Up went she: but to tell how she descended, Would G.o.d she were not dead, or my verse ended!

She was the rule of wishes, sum, and end, For all the parts that did on love depend: Yet cast the torch his brightness further forth; But what s.h.i.+nes nearest best, holds truest worth.

Leander did not through such tempests swim To kiss the torch, although it lighted him: But all his powers in her desires awaked, Her love and virtues cloth'd him richly naked.

Men kiss but fire that only shows pursue; Her torch and Hero, figure show and virtue.

Now at oppos'd Abydos naught was heard But bleating flocks, and many a bellowing herd, Slain for the nuptials; cracks of falling woods; Blows of broad axes; pourings out of floods.

The guilty h.e.l.lespont was mix'd and stain'd With b.l.o.o.d.y torrent that the shambles rain'd; Not arguments of feast, but shows that bled, Foretelling that red night that followed.

More blood was spilt, more honours were addrest, Than could have graced any happy feast; Rich banquets, triumphs, every pomp employs His sumptuous hand; no miser's nuptial joys.

Air felt continual thunder with the noise Made in the general marriage-violence; And no man knew the cause of this expense, But the two hapless lords, Leander's sire, And poor Leander, poorest where the fire Of credulous love made him most rich surmis'd: As short was he of that himself so priz'd, As is an empty gallant full of form, That thinks each look an act, each drop a storm, That falls from his brave breathings; most brought up In our metropolis, and hath his cup Brought after him to feasts; and much palm bears For his rare judgment in th' attire he wears; Hath seen the hot Low-Countries, not their heat, Observe their rampires and their buildings yet; And, for your sweet discourse with mouths, is heard Giving instructions with his very beard; Hath gone with an amba.s.sador, and been A great man's mate in travelling, even to Rhene; And then puts all his worth in such a face As he saw brave men make, and strives for grace To get his news forth: as when you descry A s.h.i.+p, with all her sail contends to fly Out of the narrow Thames with winds unapt, Now crosseth here, then there, then his way rapt, And then hath one point reach'd, then alters all, And to another crooked reach doth fall Of half a bird-bolt's shoot, keeping more coil Than if she danc'd upon the ocean's toil; So serious is his trifling company, In all his swelling s.h.i.+p of vacantry, And so short of himself in his high thought Was our Leander in his fortunes brought, And in his fort of love that he thought won; But otherwise he scorns comparison.

O sweet Leander, thy large worth I hide In a short grave! ill-favour'd storms must chide Thy sacred favour; I in floods of ink Must drown thy graces, which white papers drink, Even as thy beauties did the foul black seas; I must describe the h.e.l.l of thy decease, That heaven did merit: yet I needs must see Our painted fools and c.o.c.khorse peasantry Still, still usurp, with long lives, loves, and l.u.s.t, The seats of Virtue, cutting short as dust Her dear-bought issue: ill to worse converts, And tramples in the blood of all deserts.

Night close and silent now goes fast before The captains and the soldiers to the sh.o.r.e, On whom attended the appointed fleet At Sestos' bay, that should Leander meet, Who feign'd he in another s.h.i.+p would pa.s.s: Which must not be, for no one mean there was To get his love home, but the course he took.

Forth did his beauty for his beauty look, And saw her through her torch, as you behold Sometimes within the sun a face of gold, Form'd in strong thoughts, by that tradition's force That says a G.o.d sits there and guides his course.

His sister was with him; to whom he show'd His guide by sea, and said, "Oft have you view'd In one heaven many stars, but never yet In one star many heavens till now were met.

See, lovely sister! see, now Hero s.h.i.+nes, No heaven but her appears; each star repines, And all are clad in clouds, as if they mourn'd To be by influence of earth out-burn'd.

Yet doth she s.h.i.+ne, and teacheth Virtue's train Still to be constant in h.e.l.l's blackest reign, Though even the G.o.ds themselves do so entreat them As they did hate, and earth as she would eat them."

Off went his silken robe, and in he leapt, Whom the kind waves so licorously cleapt, Thickening for haste, one in another, so, To kiss his skin, that he might almost go To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted.

But now the cruel Fates with Ate hasted To all the Winds, and made them battle fight Upon the h.e.l.lespont, for either's right Pretended to the windy monarchy; And forth they brake, the seas mix'd with the sky, And toss'd distress'd Leander, being in h.e.l.l, As high as heaven: bliss not in height doth dwell.

The Destinies sate dancing on the waves, To see the glorious Winds with mutual braves Consume each other: O, true gla.s.s, to see How ruinous ambitious statists be To their own glories! Poor Leander cried For help to sea-born Venus she denied; To Boreas, that, for his Atthaea's sake, He would some pity on his Hero take, And for his own love's sake, on his desires; But Glory never blows cold Pity's fires.

Then call'd he Neptune, who, through all the noise, Knew with affright his wreck'd Leander's voice, And up he rose; for haste his forehead hit 'Gainst heaven's hard crystal; his proud waves he smit With his fork'd sceptre, that could not obey; Much greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway.

They lov'd Leander so, in groans they brake When they came near him; and such s.p.a.ce did take 'Twixt one another, loath to issue on, That in their shallow furrows earth was shown, And the poor lover took a little breath: But the curst Fates sate spinning of his death On every wave, and with the servile Winds Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds, By that she felt, her dear Leander's state: She wept, and pray'd for him to every Fate; And every Wind that whipp'd her with her hair About the face, she kiss'd and spake it fair, Kneel'd to it, gave it drink out of her eyes To quench his thirst: but still their cruelties Even her poor torch envi'd, and rudely beat The baiting flame from that dear food it eat; Dear, for it nourish'd her Leander's life; Which with her robe she rescu'd from their strife: But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break; And, she, dear soul, even as her silk, faint, weak, Could not preserve it; out, O, out it went!

Leander still call'd Neptune, that now rent His brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face, Where tears in billows did each other chase; And, burst with ruth, he hurl'd his marble mace At the stern Fates; it wounded Lachesis That drew Leander's thread, and could not miss The thread itself, as it her hand did hit, But smote it full, and quite did sunder it.

The more kind Neptune rag'd, the more he raz'd His love's life fort, and kill'd as he embrac'd: Anger doth still his own mishap increase; If any comfort live, it is in peace.

O thievish Fates, to let blood, flesh, and sense, Build two fair temples for their excellence, To rob it with a poison'd influence!

Though souls' gifts starve, the bodies are held dear In ugliest things; sense-sport preserves a bear: But here naught serves our turns: O heaven and earth, How most-most wretched is our human birth!

And now did all the tyrannous crew depart, Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart, Greater than they could make, and scorn'd their smart.

She bow'd herself so low out of her tower, That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour, With searching the lamenting waves for him: Like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb Hung on her turret's top, so most downright, As she would dive beneath the darkness quite, To find her jewel;--jewel!--her Leander, A name of all earth's jewels pleas'd not her Like his dear name: "Leander, still my choice, Come naught but my Leander! O my voice, Turn to Leander! henceforth be all sounds, Accents, and phrases, that show all griefs' wounds, a.n.a.lys'd in Leander! O black change!

Trumpets, do you, with thunder of your clange, Drive out this change's horror! My voice faints: Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints!"

Thus cried she; for her mixed soul could tell Her love was dead: and when the Morning fell Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe, Blushes, that bled out of her cheeks, did show Leander brought by Neptune, bruis'd and torn With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn, To filthy usuring rocks, that would have blood, Though they could get of him no other good.

She saw him, and the sight was much-much more Than might have serv'd to kill her: should her store Of giant sorrows speak?--Burst,--die,--bleed, And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed.

She fell on her love's bosom, hugg'd it fast, And with Leander's name she breath'd her last.

Neptune for pity in his arms did take them, Flung them into the air, and did awake them Like two sweet birds, surnam'd th' Acanthides, Which we call Thistle-warps, that near no seas Dare ever come, but still in couples fly, And feed on thistle-tops, to testify The hardness of their first life in their last; The first, in thorns of love, that sorrows past: And so most beautiful their colours show As none (so little) like them; her sad brow A sable velvet feather covers quite, Even like the forehead-cloth that, in the night, Or when they sorrow, ladies use to wear: Their wings, blue, red, and yellow, mix'd appear; Colours that, as we construe colours, paint Their states to life;--the yellow shows their saint, The dainty Venus, left them; blue, their truth; The red and black, ensigns of death and ruth.

And this true honour from their love-death sprung,-- They were the first that ever poet sung.

MINOR POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

THE Pa.s.sIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

COME live with me, and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle

A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: An if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.