Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 16

Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone: Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?

And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.

Come, little wretch--ah, silly heart!

Mine only joy, what can I more?

If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, I say, against my will, I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!

Would G.o.d Himself He might thee see!-- No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me: But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance, Yet mayst thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a n.o.ble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

Then mayst thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan, Thy father is no rascal lad, A n.o.ble youth of blood and bone: His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: G.o.d bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618

75. The Silent Lover i

Pa.s.sIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618

76. The Silent Lover ii

WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true pa.s.sion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compa.s.sion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret pa.s.sion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compa.s.sion.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618

77. His Pilgrimage

GIVE me my scallop-sh.e.l.l of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given: Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains; There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before; But, after, it will thirst no more.

Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618

78. The Conclusion

EVEN such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My G.o.d shall raise me up, I trust.

Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599

79. Whilst it is prime

FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote-armour richly are displayd All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring, In goodly colours gloriously arrayd-- Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, Yet in her winters bowre not well awake; Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid, Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew; Where every one, that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.

Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime; For none can call againe the pa.s.sed time.

make] mate.

Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599

80. A Ditty In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds

SEE where she sits upon the gra.s.sie greene, (O seemely sight!) Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene, And ermines white: Upon her head a Cremosin coronet With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set: Bay leaves betweene, And primroses greene, Embellish the sweete Violet.

Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face Like Phoebe fayre?

Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace, Can you well compare?

The Redde rose medled with the White yfere, In either cheeke depeincten lively chere: Her modest eye, Her Majestie, Where have you seene the like but there?

I see Calliope speede her to the place, Where my G.o.ddesse s.h.i.+nes; And after her the other Muses trace With their Violines.

Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare, All for Elisa in her hand to weare?

So sweetely they play, And sing all the way, That it a heaven is to heare.

Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote To the Instrument: They dauncen deffly, and singen soote, In their meriment.

Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?

Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.

She shal be a Grace, To fyll the fourth place, And reigne with the rest in heaven.

Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine, With Gelliflowres; Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine Worne of Paramoures: Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies, And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies: The pretie p.a.w.nce, And the Chevisaunce, Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.

Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou art In royall aray; And now ye daintie Damsells may depart Eche one her way.

I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe: Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song: And if you come hether When Damsines I gether, I will part them all you among.

medled] mixed. yfere] together. soote] sweet. coronations]

carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. p.a.w.nce]

pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris.

Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599

81. Prothalamion

CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot t.i.tans beames, which then did glyster fayre; When I, (whom sullein care, Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In Princes Court, and expectation vayne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,) Walkt forth to ease my payne Along the sh.o.a.re of silver streaming Themmes; Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes, Was paynted all with variable flowers, And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes Fit to decke maydens bowres, And crowne their Paramours Against the Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.