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On whatso forehead she that myrtle laid,
But wisest kings, that with a sacred eye
They fill him with deep cups of Bacchus old,
So then upon the stringed harp he sings
A DIALOGUE OF TWO SHEPHERDS. TheNot.
The softer season now will soon be here,
Then shall we lie amid the meads again,
For now, the bitter cold of winter past, The lovely mavis singeth on the bough; And I, who thought the cruel time surpast All other ills, which I have felt till now, To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow; And eke to Phoebus, that with golden ray, O happy light! doth over-crown the day.
So said the Shepherd to his younger peer,
SONG. to MAY.
May, queen of blossoms,
Thou hast no need of us,
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
When with the jacinth
MAY, be thou blessed
SONNETS. oN BEholding THE PORTRAITURE OF siR Philip sIDNEY, IN THE GALLERY AT PENshurst.
The man that looks, sweet Sidney, in thy face,
This glorious index of a heav'nly book, Not seldom, as in youthful years he stood,
Divinest Spenser would admiring look; And, framing thence high wit and pure desire, Imagin'd deeds, that set the world on fire
How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragic face,
I grieve to think, so often as I muse,
The nightingale is mute, and so art thou,
The largest reign of silence yet hath sway
Then let dumb nature in that plea rejoice, But be not thou to that dominion brought:
For speech in thee, some men's disparagement,
Thy purer gifts with glory shall augment.
In Parian marble of divinest price,
To THE MUSE.
Daughter of Jove, encircled by the Hours,
to A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE waters of LAKEN
ON BEHOLDING BODIHAM CASTLE, oN THE BANK of the Roth ER, IN sussex.
O thou, brave ruin of the passed time,
Call'd honour! at the matin hour sublime,
And the grey ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime, And thy full vigour, and the eating harms
Of age have robb'd thee of thy warlike chara, And plac'd thee here, an image in my rhyme; The owl now haunts thee, and, oblivion's plast The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers; And Rother, looking up with eye askant, Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours, Laments the time, when, sair and elegant, Beauty first laugh’d from out thy joyous bowers'
THE TEMPLES OF PEN US AND MARs
First, in the chapel of the Paphian queen, Wrought on the wall, there may by you be seen A sight indeed full piteous to behold, The broken sleep; and the sighs deadly cold; The sacred tears; the wailings, a whole quire; The fiery strokes of the unrein'd desire: All, that love's servants in this world endure; And all the oaths their covenants assure; Pleasure; and hope; desire; fool-hardiness; Beauty; and youth ; and purchas'd wantonnes; Gold; charms; and force; and lies; and flattery: And waste expense; bus'ness; and jealousy, Upon whose head a golden sun-flower band, And the false cuckoo sate upon her hand; Feasts; instruments; and carols; and ripe dances; Lust; and array; and all the circumstances Of Love; that I may reckon, and reckon ca Till the mid-summer, and yet ne'er have done; All these were painted the fresh wall upon, And more than I can tell to any one; For Mount Cithaeron was depicted there, Where Venus hath her princely dwelling fair. All the world glow’d with the delightful place, The fount, eye, soul of passion and of grace; There was the garden, and the lustiness: Be sure they not forgot the porter, ldieness; Nor fair Narcissus, that from love is gone; Nor yet the folly of King Solomon; Nor strength of Hercules, that tore hell up; Nor Circe, nor Medea's charmed cup; Nor Turnus, and his hard and fiery rage; Nor golden Croesus in the Persian cage: By which it may be seen, that neither gold, Nor stronger wisdom, nor the courage bold. Nor strength, nor art, nor beauty's powerful face, Can hold with Venus any equal pace: What party in her realm have they, who rules The rolling world, and makes all people fools; Such as these were, who in her snare were caught, And often cried, “Alas!” and all for nought: And these examples may suffice; although Ten thousands more may date from her their woe.
The froth-born Goddess, ravishing to see,
A garland of the rose; and a white pair
And now to tell you, on the westward side,
Where Mars his sovereign mansion still doth hold,
In frosty regions and eternal cold.
A forest on the wall was there exprest In which there never wons nor man nor beast, With knotty, knarry, barren trees, right old, And sharp with stubs, and hideous to behold, Where, like the thunder, ran a rumble through, As though a storm would break down ev'ry bough, And downward, (and a savage hill o'erbent.) There stood the fane of Mars armipotent; Wrought all of burned steel; the entrance keen Was long, and strait, and ghastly to be seen; • And thereout came a rage, and air, God knows, The gates from their great hinges heav'd and rose: The northern light in at the door there shone; For window on the massy wall was none, Through which men might the open light discern: * The door was all of adamant eterne, And clenched overthwart, and end-ways long, With iron tough, and, for to make it strong,
Every great pillar of this house of war Was tun-great, of bright iron blazing far.
There saw I first the dark imagining
PROCESSION AND HPMN IN HONOUR OF PAN.
Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm’d, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly-mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest-trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministering looks: always his eye Stedsast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his righthand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, halfbare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem’d, To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian: But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether-lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's cry, Of logs piled solemnly.—Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away!
Soon the assembly in a circle rang'd, Stood silent round the shrine: eachlock wasto To sudden veneration: women meek Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each ot Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slighties. Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan and pale, and with an unawedsoe, Among his brothers of the mountain-chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest Ey'd them with joy from greatest to the leist, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: —“Men of Latmos! shot
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From vallies where the pipe is never dumb: . Or from your swelling downs, where sweetition Blue hare-bells lightly, and where pricklysm Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chao Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, Whose mellow reeds are touch'd withsoundsson By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn: Mothers and wives! who day by day presar The scrip, with needments, for the mountaio And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup Will put choice honey for a favoured youth. Yea, every one attend for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than . . Night-swollen mushrooms? Arenolourwiko" Speckled with countless sleeces? Hist not risis Green'd over April's lap? No howling” Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. . The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, ** That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.