HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy !
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, And, by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying, — There, on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek, Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come! and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free, To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before; Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, From the side of some hoar hill Through the high wood echoing shrill; Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landscape round it measures
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest, Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses : And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail ; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale With stories told of many a feat: How fairy Mab the junkets eat, She was pinched and pulled, she said, And he, by friar's lantern led ; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail had thrashed the corn That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And, crop-full, out of doors he flings Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.
Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, - With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With masque, and antique pageantry, — Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream; Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony, - That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
IL PENSEROSO.
HENCE, vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cyprus-lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes; There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad, leaden, downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast;
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, — Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak.
Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
And, missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry, smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar ; Or if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm; Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hoid The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook; And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Museus from his bower! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made hell grant what love did seek! Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, - And who had Canacé to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride! And, if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ushered with a shower still When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beains, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid;
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
Peace, Love the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,
That's hallowed ground where, mourned and Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not,
The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot.
« VorigeDoorgaan » |