Bulchevy's Book of English Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come; Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow From concent divinely framed: Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing Discords need for helps to grace them; Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord;
But still moves delight, Like clear springs renew'd by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
170. Devotion i
FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
Though here thou liv'st disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!
That so have scorched thee As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black so brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory s.h.i.+neth!
There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordained!
The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,-- The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
171. Devotion ii
FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!
All that I sung still to her praise did tend; Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
172. Vobisc.u.m est Iope
WHEN thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music h.e.l.l can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
173. A Hymn in Praise of Neptune
OF Neptune's empire let us sing, At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay, Down the high mountains sliding: To whom the scaly nation yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell: And every sea-dog pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The water with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the sirens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make ev'ry echoing rock reply Unto their gentle murmuring noise The praise of Neptune's empery.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
174. Winter Nights
NOW winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
175. Integer Vitae
THE man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence:
He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
176. O come quickly!
NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to sh.o.r.e, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!
Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outs.h.i.+nes; whose beams the Blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
John Reynolds. 16th Cent.
