Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 17

There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side, A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde, As each had bene a Bryde; And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrayl`d curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalkes on hye.

Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew, They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew, The little Dazie, that at evening closes, The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew, With store of vermeil Roses, To decke their Bridegromes posies Against the Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the Lee; Two fairer Birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew; Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be, For love of Leda, whiter did appeare; Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare; So purely white they were, That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the Christal Flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still, Their wondring eyes to fill; Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre, Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly Seede, But rather Angels, or of Angels breede; Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede The earth did fresh aray; So fresh they seem'd as day, Even as their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, All which upon those goodly Birds they threw And all the Waves did strew, That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme, When downe along by pleasant Tempes sh.o.r.e, Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme, That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store, Like a Brydes Chamber flore.

Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found, The which presenting all in trim Array, Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd, Whil'st one did sing this Lay, Prepar'd against that Day, Against their Brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

'Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament, And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content Of your loves couplement; And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile, Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All Loves dislike, and friends.h.i.+ps faultie guile For ever to a.s.soile.

Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord, And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, That fruitfull issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound, And make your joyes redound Upon your Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.'

So ended she; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said their brydale daye should not be long: And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound.

So forth those joyous Birdes did pa.s.se along, Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low, As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yet did by signes his glad affection show, Making his streame run slow.

And all the foule which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser starres. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend, And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

At length they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse, Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame: There when they came, whereas those bricky towres The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers, There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, Till they decayd through pride: Next whereunto there standes a stately place, Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell, Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case; But ah! here fits not well Olde woes, but joyes, to tell Against the Brydale daye, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a n.o.ble Peer, Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder, Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillors standing neere Did make to quake and feare: Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!

That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, Joy have thou of thy n.o.ble victorie, And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name That promiseth the same; That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes, Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes; And great Elisaes glorious name may ring Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide Alarmes, Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, Upon the Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song.

From those high Towers this n.o.ble Lord issuing, Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre In th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre, Descended to the Rivers open vewing, With a great traine ensuing.

Above the rest were goodly to bee seene Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature, Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene, With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature, That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight, Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright; They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side, Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight; Which, at th' appointed tyde, Each one did make his Bryde Against their Brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599

82. Epithalamion

YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorne To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, But joyed in theyr praise; And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your dolefull dreriment: Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside; And, having all your heads with girlands crownd, Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound; Ne let the same of any be envide: So Orpheus did for his owne bride!

So I unto my selfe alone will sing; The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, Doe ye awake; and, with fresh l.u.s.ty-hed, Go to the bowre of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove; Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his maske to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to waite on him, In theyr fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, For lo! the wished day is come at last, That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past, Pay to her usury of long delight: And, whylest she doth her dight, Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, And of the sea that neighbours to her neare: Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.

And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay girland For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.

And let them make great store of bridale poses, And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridale bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapred lyke the discolored mead.

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, For she will waken strayt; The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.

Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed; (Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;) And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, Where none doo fishes take; Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light, And in his waters, which your mirror make, Behold your faces as the christall bright, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, No blemish she may spie.

And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere, That on the h.o.a.ry mountayne used to towre; And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer; Be also present heere, To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time; The Rosy Morne long since left t.i.thones bed, All ready to her silver coche to clyme; And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.

Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies And carroll of Loves praise.

The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft; The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes; The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this dayes merriment.

Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?

When meeter were that ye should now awake, T' awayt the comming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds love-learned song, The deawy leaves among!

Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames, And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.

Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight, Helpe quickly her to dight: But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night; Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, And al, that ever in this world is fayre, Doe make and still repayre: And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: And, as ye her array, still throw betweene Some graces to be seene; And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come: Let all the virgins therefore well awayt: And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome, Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.

Set all your things in seemely good aray, Fit for so joyfull day: The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.

Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray, And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, For feare of burning her sunshyny face, Her beauty to disgrace.

O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse!

If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse; But let this day, let this one day, be myne; Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud Their merry Musick that resounds from far, The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud, That well agree withouten breach or jar.

But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite When they their tymbrels smyte, And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet, That all the sences they doe ravish quite; The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noyce, As if it were one voyce, Hymen, io Hymen, Hymen, they do shout; That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; To which the people standing all about, As in approvance, doe thereto applaud, And loud advaunce her laud; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing, That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, Arysing forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.

So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene Some angell she had beene.

Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre; And, being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.

Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, So farre from being proud.

Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see So fayre a creature in your towne before; So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?

Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres s.h.i.+ning bright, Her forehead yvory white, Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded, Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded, Her paps lyke lyllies budded, Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre; And all her body like a pallace fayre, Ascending up, with many a stately stayre, To honors seat and chast.i.ties sweet bowre.

Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonisht lyke to those which red Medusaes mazeful hed.

There dwels sweet love, and constant chast.i.ty, Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, Regard of honour, and mild modesty; There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, And giveth lawes alone, The which the base affections doe obay, And yeeld theyr services unto her will; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.

Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, And all the postes adorne as doth behove, And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew, That commeth in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence, She commeth in, before th' Almighties view; Of her ye virgins learne obedience, When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces: Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endlesse matrimony make; And let the roring Organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes; The whiles, with hollow throates, The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing, That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne Like crimsin dyde in grayne: That even th' Angels, which continually About the sacred Altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre, The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd.

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band!

Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe; Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gaine; With joyance bring her and with jollity.

Never had man more joyfull day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis, Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is.

Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, Poure out to all that wull, And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.

Crowne ye G.o.d Bacchus with a coronall, And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, For they can doo it best: The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, That ye for ever it remember may.

This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, With Barnaby the bright, From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees.

But for this time it ill ordained was, To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter weare: Yet never day so long, but late would pa.s.se.

Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, And bonefiers make all day; And daunce about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love?

How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?

How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?