A selection from the lyrical poems of Robert Herrick Part 7

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him; And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed, With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home;--but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him.

44. THE CHEAT OF CUPID; OR, THE UNGENTLE GUEST

One silent night of late, When every creature rested, Came one unto my gate, And knocking, me molested.

Who's that, said I, beats there, And troubles thus the sleepy?

Cast off; said he, all fear, And let not locks thus keep ye.

For I a boy am, who By moonless nights have swerved; And all with showers wet through, And e'en with cold half starved.

I pitiful arose, And soon a taper lighted; And did myself disclose Unto the lad benighted.

I saw he had a bow, And wings too, which did s.h.i.+ver; And looking down below, I spied he had a quiver.

I to my chimney's s.h.i.+ne Brought him, as Love professes, And chafed his hands with mine, And dried his dropping tresses.

But when he felt him warm'd, Let's try this bow of ours And string, if they be harm'd, Said he, with these late showers.

Forthwith his bow he bent, And wedded string and arrow, And struck me, that it went Quite through my heart and marrow

Then laughing loud, he flew Away, and thus said flying, Adieu, mine host, adieu, I'll leave thy heart a-dying.

45. UPON CUPID

Love, like a gipsy, lately came, And did me much importune To see my hand, that by the same He might foretell my fortune.

He saw my palm; and then, said he, I tell thee, by this score here, That thou, within few months, shalt be The youthful Prince D'Amour here.

I smiled, and bade him once more prove, And by some cross-line show it, That I could ne'er be Prince of Love, Though here the Princely Poet.

46. TO BE MERRY

Let's now take our time, While we're in our prime, And old, old age is afar off; For the evil, evil days Will come on apace, Before we can be aware of.

47. UPON HIS GRAY HAIRS

Fly me not, though I be gray, Lady, this I know you'll say; Better look the roses red, When with white commingled.

Black your hairs are; mine are white; This begets the more delight, When things meet most opposite; As in pictures we descry Venus standing Vulcan by.

48. AN HYMN TO THE MUSES

Honour to you who sit Near to the well of wit, And drink your fill of it!

Glory and wors.h.i.+p be To you, sweet Maids, thrice three, Who still inspire me;

And teach me how to sing Unto the lyric string, My measures ravis.h.i.+ng!

Then, while I sing your praise, My priest-hood crown with bays Green to the end of days!

49. THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK

So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night; Not all at once, but gently,--as the trees Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.

50. HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY

HERE, Here I live with what my board Can with the smallest cost afford; Though ne'er so mean the viands be, They well content my Prue and me: Or pea or bean, or wort or beet, Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.

Here we rejoice, because no rent We pay for our poor tenement; Wherein we rest, and never fear The landlord or the usurer.

The quarter-day does ne'er affright Our peaceful slumbers in the night: We eat our own, and batten more, Because we feed on no man's score; But pity those whose flanks grow great, Swell'd with the lard of other's meat.

We bless our fortunes, when we see Our own beloved privacy; And like our living, where we're known To very few, or else to none.

51. HIS RETURN TO LONDON

From the dull confines of the drooping west, To see the day spring from the pregnant east, Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly To thee, blest place of my nativity!

Thus, thus with hallow'd foot I touch the ground, With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd.

O fruitful Genius! that bestowest here An everlasting plenty year by year; O place! O people! manners! framed to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages!

I am a free-born Roman; suffer then That I amongst you live a citizen.

London my home is; though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment; Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee!

For, rather than I'll to the west return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn.

Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; Give thou my sacred reliques burial.