Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry Part 3

There would the daughter of the Sea G.o.d dive, And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve To wait upon her: bringing for her brows Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs.

For pleasant was that pool, and near it then Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen, It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge, Nor grew there rudely then along the edge A bending willow, nor a p.r.i.c.kly bush, Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush.

But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers, There gra.s.sy plots set round about with flowers.

Here you might through the water see the land Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand; Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan, With all those flocks of fowls which to this day, Upon those quiet waters breed and play.

For though those excellences wanting be Which once it had, it is the same that we By transposition name the Ford of Arle, And out of which, along a chalky marle, That river trills whose waters wash the fort In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.

North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies A tract of beechy mountains, that arise, With leisurely ascending, to such height As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight You in the ocean's bosom may espy, Though near two furlongs thence it lie.

The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb, Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme, Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall; Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall; Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine; Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine, With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.

When you unto the highest do attain An intermixture both of wood and plain You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie, Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry, So much, at least, as little needeth more, If not enough to merchandise their store.

In every row hath nature planted there Some banquet for the hungry pa.s.senger.

For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows, There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.

On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree, On that large thickets of blackberries be.

The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there, The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are, And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills With some small number of such pretty rills As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.

From _Faire Virtue_.

Her Beauty

Her true beauty leaves behind Apprehensions in my mind Of more sweetness than all art Or inventions can impart; Thoughts too deep to be expressed, And too strong to be suppressed....

... What pearls, what rubies can Seem so lovely fair to man, As her lips whom he doth love When in sweet discourse they move: Or her lovelier teeth, the while She doth bless him with a smile!

Stars indeed fair creatures be; Yet amongst us where is he Joys not more the whilst he lies Sunning in his mistress' eyes.

Than in all the glimmering light Of a starry winter's night?

Note the beauty of an eye, And if aught you praise it by Leave such pa.s.sion in your mind, Let my reason's eye be blind.

Mark if ever red or white Anywhere gave such delight As when they have taken place In a worthy woman's face.

From _Faire Virtue_.

Rhomboidal Dirge.

Ah me!

Am I the swain That late from sorrow free Did all the cares on earth disdain?

And still untouched, as at some safer games, Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames?

Was't I could dive, and sound each pa.s.sion's secret depth at will?

And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still?

And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain, So sunk that I shall never rise again?

Then let despair set sorrow's string, For strains that doleful be; And I will sing, Ah me!

But why, O fatal time, Dost thou constrain that I Should perish in my youth's sweet prime?

I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers!) In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers, And yet unscorned, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she, That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!

Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress; Yet I, poor I! must perish ne'ertheless.

And (which much more augments my care) Unmoaned I must die, And no man e'er Know why.

Thy leave, My dying song, Yet take, ere grief bereave The breath which I enjoy too long, Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefers Her love above my life; and that I died her's: And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear, Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here.

And now farewell! thou place of my unhappy birth, Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth; Since me my wonted joys forsake, And all my trust deceive; Of all I take My leave.

Farewell!

Sweet groves, to you!

You hills, that highest dwell; And all you humble vales, adieu!

You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks, My dear companions all! and you, my tender flocks!

Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!

You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart Have, without pity, broke the truest heart.

Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy, That erst did with me dwell, And all other joys, Farewell!

Adieu!

Fair shepherdesses!

Let garlands of sad yew Adorn your dainty golden tresses.

I, that loved you, and often with my quill, Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill; I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace.

Yea, with a thousand rather favours, would vouchsafe to grace, I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain; And never pipe, nor never sing again!

I must, for evermore, be gone; And therefore bid I you, And every one, Adieu!

I die!

For, oh! I feel Death's horrors drawing nigh, And all this frame of nature reel.

My hopeless heart, despairing of relief, Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief; Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein, All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again.

My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round; A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound; Benumbed is my cold sweating brow A dimness shuts my eye.

And now, oh! now, I die!

From _Faire Virtue_.

Song

Lordly gallants! tell me this (Though my safe content you weigh not), In your greatness, what one bliss Have you gained, that I enjoy not?

You have honours, you have wealth; I have peace, and I have health: All the day I merry make, And at night no care I take.

Bound to none my fortunes be, This or that man's fall I fear not; Him I love that loveth me, For the rest a pin I care not.

You are sad when others chaff, And grow merry as they laugh; I that hate it, and am free, Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.

You may boast of favours shown, Where your service is applied: But my pleasures are mine own, And to no man's humour tied.

You oft flatter, sooth, and feign; I such baseness do disdain; And to none be slave I would, Though my fetters might be gold.

By great t.i.tles, some believe, Highest honours are attained; And yet kings have power to give To their fools, what these have gained.

Where they favour there they may All their names of honour lay; But I look not raised to be, 'Till mine own wing carry me.

Seek to raise your t.i.tles higher; They are toys not worth my sorrow; Those that we to-day admire, Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.

Take your honours; let me find Virtue in a free born mind-- This, the greatest kings that be Cannot give, nor take from me.

Though I vainly do not vaunt Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure; I have favours where you want, That would buy respect with treasure.

You have lands lie here and there, But my wealth is everywhere; And this addeth to my store-- Fortune cannot make me poor.

Say you purchase with your pelf Some respect, where you importune; Those may love me for myself, That regard you for your fortune.

Rich or born of high degree, Fools as well as you may be; But that peace in which I live No descent nor wealth can give.

If you boast that you may gain The respect of high-born beauties; Know I never wooed in vain, Nor preferred scorned duties.

She I love hath all delight, Rosy-red with lily-white, And whoe'er your mistress be, Flesh and blood as good as she.

Note of me was never took, For my woman-like perfections; But so like a man I look, It hath gained me best affections.

For my love as many showers Have been wept as have for yours: And yet none doth me condemn For abuse, or scorning them.