Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry Part 8

_The Inner Temple Masque._

The Charm

Son of Erebus and Night, Hie away; and aim thy flight Where consort none other fowl Than the bat and sullen owl; Where upon the limber gra.s.s Poppy and mandragoras With like simples not a few Hang for ever drops of dew.

Where flows Lethe without coil Softly like a stream of oil.

Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep: With this Greek no longer keep.

Thrice I charge thee by my wand; Thrice with moly from my hand Do I touch Ulysses' eyes, And with the jaspis: Then arise, Sagest Greek....

_The Inner Temple Masque._

Caelia

(Sonnets)

Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost, Not dreading loss, do sing again of love; And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd, Try if my stars still inauspicious prove: Not to make good that poets never can Long time without a chosen mistress be, Do I sing thus; or my affections ran Within the maze of mutability; What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind, And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair, Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere, I may adore it there, and love the cell For entertaining what I lov'd so well.

Why might I not for once be of that sect, Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right, Some other bodies to themselves elect; And sunlike make the day, and license night?

That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere Was to enlighten straight another part; In that horizon, if I see it there, Calls for my first respect and its desert; Her virtue is the same and may be more; For as the sun is distant, so his power In operation differs, and the store Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our.

And verily I think her climate such, Since to my former flame it adds so much.

Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry You took my hand to try if you could guess By lines therein if any wight there be Ordain'd to make me know some happiness; I wish'd that those characters could explain, Whom I will never wrong with hope to win; Or that by them a copy might be ta'en, By you alone what thoughts I have within.

But since the hand of Nature did not set (As providently loath to have it known) The means to find that hidden alphabet.

Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone: By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair, If now you see her that doth love me there.

Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest And take a long leave of sweet poesy; Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west, Should hear no more mine oaten melody; Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile Unperfect lie, and make no further known The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle; Till I have left some record of mine own.

You are the subject now, and, writing you, I well may versify, not poetize: Here needs no fiction: for the graces true And virtues clip not with base flatteries.

Here could I write what you deserve of praise, Others might wear, but I should win the bays.

Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Caelia sleeps, And gentle gales play gently with the leaves; Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise, (A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre) Give way, that I in silence may admire.

Is not her sleep like that of innocents, Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair, Almost in death, than are the ornaments Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?

She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.

Visions

(Sonnets)

I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea, Singing a sad farewell unto the vale, While fishes leapt to hear her melody, And on each thorn a gentle nightingale And many other birds forbore their notes, Leaping from tree to tree, as she along The panting bosom of the current floats, Rapt with the music of her dying song: When from a thick and all-entangled spring A neatherd rude came with no small ado, Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing, And quickly struck her tender neck in two; Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed, And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.

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 danc'd 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 gard'ner 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.

Down in a valley, by a forest's side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride, As if the lilies grew to be his slaves; The gentle daisy, with her silver crown, Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's la.s.s; The humble violet, that lowly down Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pa.s.s: These, with a many more, methought, complain'd That Nature should those needless things produce, Which not alone the sun from others gain'd But turn it wholly to their proper use: I could not choose but grieve that Nature made So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady, That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy, Methought I saw, upon a summer's day, Take up a little satyr in a wood, All masterless forlorn as none did know him, And nursing him with those of his own blood, On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him; But with the G.o.d he long time had not been, Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot, And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd between Pan and all good befell the poor man's lot: Whereat all good men griev'd, and strongly swore They never would be foster-fathers more.

Epitaphs

In Obitum M S, X Maij, 1614

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing, Nor Flora's pride!

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

W. B.

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke

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.

Marble piles let no man raise To her name: for after days Some kind woman born as she, Reading this, like Niobe Shall turn marble, and become Both her mourner and her tomb.