Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, When did music come this way? But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. "Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door." Come away, children, call no more, Come away, come down, call no more. Down, down, down, Down to the depths of the sea. She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, From the humming street, and the child with its toy, From the priest and the bell, and the holy well, From the wheel where I spun, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, UNA AND THE LION. FROM THE "FAERIE QUEENE," BOOK I. CANTO III. ONE day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight; From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place; Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood : Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have attonce devoured her tender corse; But to the pray whenas he drew more ny, And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious His bloody rage aswagèd with remorse, § forse. And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, So pure and shiny that the silver flood Was over wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay* in liquid ioyes. And over all, of purest gold, was spred A trayle of yvie in his native hew; For the rich metall was so colourèd, That wight, who did not well avised † it vew, Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew: Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe, That, themselves dipping in the silver dew, Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to weep. Infinit streames continually did well Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see, see, All pav'd beneath with iaspar shining bright, That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright. Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere. Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee; For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree: The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall; The waters fall, with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. EDMUND SPENSER. THE LADY LOST IN THE WOOD. FROM "COMUS." THIS way the noise was, if mine ear be true, My best guide now; methought it was the sound Through every channell running one might see; Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Most goodly it with curious ymageree Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe Stirs up amongst the loose, unlettered hinds, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labor of my thoughts: 't is likeliest With everlasting oil, to give due light These thoughts may startle well, but not astound Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, course. The water-nymphs that in the bottom played, And the inglorious likeness of a beast Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts, Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, MILTON. THE NYMPH OF THE SEVERN. FROM "COMUS." THERE is a gentle nymph not far from hence That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream. Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ; That brow this bottom-glade, whence night by night, He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl, In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. |