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Till the wide woods, to which I teach the same,
And ev'ry fount that in the valley flows,
Shall stay it's fall, and murmur at the close.

Nor yet shall time, a thing not understood,
The nimble mind can travel where it would,
More swift than winds, or than the greedy fire;
To that eternal seat, where thou art laid
Thy golden locks, that in wide splendour flow,
Crowned with lilies, and with violets,
And amaranth, which that good angel sets
With joy upon thy radiant head to blow;
That in the blissful meads of heav'n are found ;)


TEE Or lo

Zer A SONG TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. The whilst full quires around

Th Spirit, whose bliss beyond this cloudy sphere

With silver hymns, and dulcet harmony, Is with the rising, and the setting light,

Make laud unto the glorious throne of grace,

Asm Who, far remov'd from all that grieves us here,

And fill thy ears with true felicity;

Th For ever happy, and for ever bright,

Such is the happy place, Yet lookest down with pity from on high,

Which thou by thy heroic toil hast won,

Ar 'Midst airs of immortality :

Such is the place, to which my sacred verses rud.

TE O, with what pure and never-ending song,

Then I believe, that at thy birth was set AD Song, that uplift upon the wings of love,

Some purer planet in the lofty sky,

He May gain access to that celestial throng,

Which a sweet influence did on earth beget; Shall I now soar above,

That all the shepherds which on ground did lie,

The And in the silver flood of morning play,

Beholding there that unexampled light,

TE And view thy face, and brighten into day?

That made like day the night,


Were fill'd with hope and great expectancy, Forgive me, then, O love-enlarged soul,

That Pan himself would on the earth appear, Or love itself in pure felicity,

T To bless th' unbounded year.

N If, questioning my nature's fast controul, I slip my bonds, and wander unto thee; But, ah! too well I know

ZERBINO INSTRUCTED BY THE MUSE. That this may not be so,


It was the jolly, and earth-teeming spring; Till that prefixed doom from heav'n be spent:

The daffodils did in the meads appear,
Then for a little while,

That still their pensive heads do lowly fling,
If measure may beguile,
Let thy sweet deeds become my argument;

As shedding for Narcissus' fate a tear;

Whom beauty to that sad event did bring, That all the wide hereafter may behold

That loved in a stream himself too dear, Thy mind more perfect than refined gold.

And pined with the vain delight away; But this is to enlarge the liberal air,

Such pleasure did his face to him convey. And pour fresh light into the diamond,

Now Dian, for he was to Dian dear,

H. To herald that the fragrant rose is fair,

As well by beauty, as his virtue's charm, And that the sun in beauty doth abound;

Perceiving how he lov'd that mirror clear, So vain, and so excessful is the thought

In which his fatal beauty did him harm, To add to Sidney aught:

Would not remove him, as it may appear, Yet cannot I forego the sweet delight,

But with soft pity did his fate disarm;
More sweet to me than music or the spring,

She turn'd him to a pale, and silken flow'r,
Or than the starry beams of summer's night,
Thy sweetest praise, O Astrophel, to sing;

That on itself still gazes to this hour.

No fountain, be its silver water pure,
Shall echo with thy name;

Unless sad herbs have in its wave been thrown
By those that can the charmed moon allure
To leave her sphere, but reckons for its own
The pale narcissus, that with passion pure
Still feeds upon itself; but, newly blown,
The nymphs will pluck it from its tender stalk,

And say, " Go, fool, and to thy image talk."
And Procne, in the marble plains of air,

For Itys did with weeping song complain ;
But time had somewhat soften'd her despair,
And pity did prevail through all the straia;
And yet her restless passage did declare
The fatal wrongs of Tereus did remain ;
Her weeping song, upon the silv'ry brim,
Resounded of poor Itys, and of him.

Nor weary space forbid me my desire;

So shall my thoughts aspire

In brightness without shade;

(Soft flow'rs, unknown to woe,


So swiftly from the impious king she fled,

“ I tell you, you shall walk the shades of night, And swiftly has e'er since pursu'd her flight, And hear the song, that can turn back the day, Still weeping for the cruel rage, that shed

For hell, Zerbino, opens to my might, The guiltless soul of Itys, in despite

And upward to the morning I can stray:
Of that vile king;-but whither am I led

The muse I that offer to your sight
In soft description from the wand'ring knight? The banks of Lethe, and the starry way:
Zerbino through the valley took his way:

No harm shall meet you on your sacred road;
The zephyrs with his golden crest did play, For virtue in all worlds bath her abode.

“ 'Tis virtue, not your golden arms, can save As much delighted with the beauteous fruit, That, like a banquet, on his helm y-shone,

Your soul from Evil, that with wand'ring flight When joyous marriage doth with parents suit,

Doth journey on the wing of Care, and brave And the sweet music is so touch'd, and blown

The fine perdition of the beamy light; From shawm, and trumpet, dulcimer, and lute,

For rest is not her consort, by the wave That Jealousy with love doth look thereon ;

Of Stygian darkness, or the crystal height;

But with an iron plume she beats the air,
And Hymen with a golden song doth tell,
How the pure marriage doth with angels dwell!

Incessant on her journey of despair:

“ Not feared by the mind, whose beauteous thought The shrill cicada deafen'd with her


Is dear to angels, and with angel's wing The sultry air, and made the hills to quake;

O'er - shadow'd, when to depths of darkness The fishes to the depth of rivers throng,

brought, The birds within the leaves a descant make;

And fed with nectar of immortal spring: The heat doth do their pretty music wrong:


come, Zerbino, without fear of aught, Now, quitting the cold woods, the speckled snake,

As Virgil did of old, the poet's king, Exulting in the burning light, displays

Ascend with me into the crystal air,
His forked tongue, and revels in the blaze.

And see what love, and what delights are there.
Enduring not the flashing beams of day,
The knight betook him to a flow'ry shade,

“ I will you show the palace of the moon, Wherein in gentle slumber as he lay,

And take you in the track of Phæbus' car, The restless fancy such amusement made,

In all his glorious altitude at noon; With revel in his thoughts, and elfish play,

Where you may wonder, how each little star, It seem'd he wander'd in a beauteous glade,

Like pearl, upon the milky air is strewn;

And see the world diminish'd from afar:
Where silv'ry orange, and the myrtle sweet,
In soft embraces o'er his head did meet.

Awake, Zerbino, for the sun is high,

And we ere night must to Olympus fly. He deem'd he heard, and so he truly did,

“ Awake, Zerbino!" and the knight awoke, A song, of sweetness to ascend the sky,

And saw before him, on the flow'ry ground, And rest amid the bliss to us forbid,

The beauteous Muse, that like an angel spoke, Until indeed our latest moments fly,

More soft than is in spring the thunder's sound: And all, that to our earthly sight was hid,

A golden plume from each fair shoulder broke, In radiant prospect doth before us lie;

And with a laurel leaf her hair was bound; He deem'd he heard a tender virgin sing

Her hair, that like Italian harvest shone, This song of love, and anthem for a king.

When burning Ætna flameth them upon! “ O youthful guest, whose lineaments divine

She stood in height as stately, and as tall, Bespeak you of the blood of kings to be,

As some fair temple, to Diana dear,
That softly wander on these shores of mine,

On which the golden light of Heav'n doth fall,
Where all things of delight you well may see, That staineth with its face the silver year:
If to diviner wisdom you incline,

Round which, when Jove doth to his daughter call,
And thirst for fruit of immortality,

The golden-hoofed harts do start for fear, Zerbino, to your sight I will declare

And Ay into the sacred woods again: What wonders are in earth, in sea, in air.

So stood the Muse upon the flow'ry plain. “ The silv'ry dragons to the team of thought, And in her hand a myrtle branch she bore, That feed upon the pleasure of the air,

With bud and blossom beauteously adorn'd,
From out their silent caverns shall be brought, And shining leaves, a very plenteous store;
And yoked to the wheel; do you prepare,

Which she had fairly pluck'd, and not suborn'd,
Zerbino, as when greatest things are wrought, From off the bright, and ever-sacred floor,
To fortify your breast with sacred prayer;

With which the house of Phæbus is adorn'd:
For in a little space you shall behold

The little bees of that celestial air The courts of amber, and the gates of gold!

Still murmur'd in its leaves, and blossoms fair.

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On whatso forehead she that myrtle laid,

Methinks, already on my reeds 1 blow, In yet unpractis'd youth, and flow'ring age,

And charm the world with glory of my song; That sacred head was by her counsel sway'd: For winter now is gone, and with it woe, Nor can he in the foaming chase engage, And sparkling summer will be here ere long; Nor practise yet the gainful merchant's trade, Then cast I here away the winter's wrong: Nor seek of mighty war the iron rage,

This day I call the fairest of the year,
Nor yet to love can yield bis spirit pure;

That shows the soft delights of spring are near.
But is her pupil, and must so endure.
But wisest kings, that with a sacred eye

I know not, Thenot, sith thy speech is so,
Behold their subjects, and allot to each

Or happy, or unhappy thee to call;
Their gracious smiles, and equal majesty, But youthful minds cannot endure with woe,
With condescension of their awful speech, But of soft joy, and hope are prodigal,
When they approve th’immortal poësy,

Whereby into more grief oftimes they fall:
Protect the man, that can with wisdom teach But let not the like case in thee be found,
What virtue to true spirits doth unfold,

Who shall, I think, in happiness abound. By great example of the times of old.

But, foolish boy, is summer then so near? They fill him with deep cups of Bacchus old, The grass-hoppers are wiser far than thee; And bless him with the fat of venison;

And Philomel can better count the year, The while some ancient tale is strictly told, That finds it not of promise yet so free, And reverend age doth give its benison

But foreign to our meads she still would be; To what the stately tables do uphold:

All prodigal delights before their time
Then music, that is sure a denizen

Must perish in dark winter's baleful clime.
Of Phæbus' court, with some immortal air,
The light digestion doth for him prepare.

The wint'ry wind, which is but sleeping now,

Shall blow throughout the reeds, of which you boast, So then upon the stringed harp he sings

Ere from the river's brink, to breathe your row, A song, that may delight Olympian Jove,

You gather the soft stalks, that to their cost Of something, which he learnt beside the springs

Must to and fro in the wild storm be tost; Of Helicon, that with eternal love

But not the less their music will be sweet, (meet. He fills the feast, and to sweet madness brings

When with the spring, and with your voice they The breast of him, who from his throne above

I think you see the summer in the face Doth bow his ear to catch the sacred song,

Of that divine, and merest paragon;
And drinketh with delight the music strong.

That violet, to whom all plants are base,
That star, that is but joy to look upon,

With whom you would be in the world alone;

And fain would die, so in her sight to die,

And count it gain, and cheap felicity.
The softer season now will soon be here,

O happy shepherd, yet unhappy too!
To clothe the world in purple, and in green; 'Twas here you saw the lovely summer smile;
And Philomel, that rules the warbling year, Forgetful, that the coming days renew
Her gentle descants will ensue, between

The wasteful winter, while you so beguile
The flow'ring orange, and the myrtle green; Yourself with love, and softly smoothe your style;
And Phæbus, who too much his course delays, Wherein in silver songs we soon shall hear
Enthron'd in joy, will lengthen out the days.

Of whate'er crowns the forehead of the year.
Then shall we lie amid the meads again,

The fault of age, which age may yet amend; And crown our locks with garlands of the spring,

But wot you well, that women's hearts are light, And from our slender pipes breathe out a strain

And purpose frail; when fairest they intend, Of joyous welcome, and sweet revelling,

They oft are seen to wander from the right; To which the shepherds, and their nymphs will sing; So folly, and so fraud their leaves may blight: And ever, 'gainst the warm and summer hours,

But some as lovely, and as fix'd in soul, The laughing Pan we will y-bind in flow'rs.

As that fair star, that lights the northern pole. For now, the bitter cold of winter past,

And so may she, to whom your vows are due, The lovely mavis singeth on the bough;

With fair requital those sweet vows repay; And I, who thought the cruel time surpast

But lose not soul and honour in her view, All other ills, which I have felt till now,

Nor think within her arms to make delay To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow;

Of time and season, that for none can stay; And eke to Phæbus, that with golden ray,

For lovers, that the summer antedate, O happy light! doth over-crown the day.

Will scant endure, when those soft days abate.


So said the Shepherd to his younger peer,
The while to pasture for the night he drove
In meads, where his soft charge no winds may fear;
But Thenot, whose delight was all in love,
Found little in his counsel to approve;
But weaving a soft crown of myrtle green,
He bound in thought the forehead of his queen.

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!




May, queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed

In the green bowers !
Thou hast no need of us,

Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee

Ripend with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragic face,

The travelld map of mournful history, Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace,

Fetch'd from old kings' moth-eaten memory; Which thou, perhaps, didst in its acting sec,

The perturbation of its doleful birth, Then crawling on to sad maturity,

And it's last sleep in the forgetful earth : But if, in style proportion’d to its worth,

We raise it up, to shake the world again, To madness we shall turn heart-easing mirth,

With horror laying waste the minds of men: 0, marble is the flesh, unmov'd can be, When it beholds so fearful tragedy!

I grieve to think, so often as I muse,

Musing on sweet and bitter argument, How many souls posterity doth lose,

In that they leave behind no monument: Souls, that have fed upon divinest thought,

Yet lacking utt'rance of their music's store, To us, that breathe hereafter, are as nought,

Or question'd but as names, that dwelt before : Were it sad chance, that them of fame bereft,

Love, grief, or sickness, or resentful woe, Or abstinence of virtue made a theft

Of that, which virtue to itself doth owe; The cause unknown, their worth unwritten too, Let the world weep, for they are pity's due'!

Thou hast thy mighty herds,

Tame, and free livers ; Doubt not, thy music too,

In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight, Warbling the day and night; Up at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers ! When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed; And for the mournful bird

Green woods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be tbine, To whom our hearts incline:

May, be thou blessed !

The nightingale is mute, and so art thou,

Whose voice is sweeter than the nightingale: While ev'ry idle scholar makes a vow,

Above thy worth and glory to prevail : Yet shall not envy to that level bring

The true precedence, which is born in thee; Thou art no less the prophet of the Spring,

Though in the woods thy voice now silent be: For silence may impair, but cannot kill

The music, that is native to thy soul ; Nor thy sweet mind, in this thy froward will,

Upon thy purest honour have controul: But, since thou will not to our wishes sing, This truth I speak, thou art of poets king.





The man that looks, sweet Sidney, in thy face,

Beholding there love's truest majesty, And the soft image of departed grace,

Shall fill his mind with magnanimity: There may he read unfeign'd humility,

And golden pity, born of heav'nly brood, Unsullied thoughts of immortality,

And musing virtue, prodigal of blood : Yes, in this map of what is fair and good,

The largest reign of silence yet hath sway

In beauty, which is music to the soul; The lily hath no voice, yet shames the day ;

Nay, the sweet air is liken'd in controul : The silver Moon, more paler than desire,

That with unvoiced wheel doth climb on high, In meditation's ear is as a quire,

That leads th' o'er-visioned Night along the sky: All silence in it's pleasure hath a voice,

If balanc'd in the fine esteem of thought;

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Then let dumb nature in that plea rejoice,
But be not thou to that dominion brought:

Of age have robb’d thee of thy warlike charms,
For speech in thee, some men’s disparagement,

And plac'd thee here, an image in my rhyme; Thy purer gifts with glory shall augment.

The owl now haunts thee, and, oblivion's plant,

The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers; In Parian marble of divinest price,

And Rother, looking up with eye askant,

Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours,
In fairest gems, in silver and in gold,

Laments the time, when, fair and elegant,
In flow'ry sweets, that have been steeped thrice
In Phæbus' beams, and now his image hold,

Beauty first laugh'd from out thy joyous bowers!
In fountains, and in woods, in beauteous meads,
In palaces of pomp, and love withal,

In scooped chariots, and in fiery steeds,
I am, indeed, most rich and prodigal!

First, in the chapel of the Paphian queen,
The Sun cannot behold a greater lord,

Wrought on the wall, there may by you be seen Nor doth the eye of Jove survey a man,

A sight indeed full piteous to behold, Whose fortune can such boundless wealth afford,

The broken sleep; and the sighs deadly cold; E'er since the artificial world began :

The sacred tears; the wailings, a whole quire; Thy face, which faults Olympus, is to me

The fiery strokes of the unrein’d desire;
This orbed World, and Nature's treasury!

All, that love's servants in this world endure;
And all the oaths their covenants assure;

Pleasure; and hope; desire ; fool-hardiness ;
Daughter of Jove, encircled by the Hours,

Beauty; and youth ; and purchas'd wantonness; The warbling Spring comes dancing from the gate

Gold; charms; and force; and lies; and flattery: Of Heaven, and, ripe in majesty and state,

And waste expense; bus'ness; and jealousy, Pours from her golden ewer the purpling flowers

Upon whose head a golden sun-flower bland, On mead, on mountain, on the hallow'd marge

And the false cuckoo sate upon her hand; Of sacred rivers; and the Mermaid chants

Feasts; instruments; and carols; and ripe dances; The seas into a calm; and the wood-haunts

Lust; and array; and all the circumstances Of coy Diana echo all at large

Of Love; that I may reckon, and reckon on With the smooth songs of Philomel : awake,

Till the mid-summer, and yet ne'er have done; Daughter of Heaven, and blameless memory;

All these were painted the fresh wall upon,

And more than I can tell to any one; Put on thy flowery sandals, and uptake

For Mount Cithæron was depicted there,
Thy golden rod, beloved of the Sky!

Where Venus hath her princely dwelling fair.
And with a tongue, like vernal thunder, make
Virtue the heir of immortality!

All the world glow'd with the delightful place,

The fount, eye, soul of passion and of grace ; TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN There was the garden, and the lustiness:

Be sure they not forgot the porter, Idleness ; O melancholy bird, a winter's day,

Nor fair Narcissus, that from love is gone;
Thou standest by the margin of the pool;

Nor yet the folly of King Solomon ;
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school Nor strength of Hercules, that tore hell up;
To patience, which all evil can allay:

Nor Circe, nor Medea's charmed cup;
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;

Nor Turnus, and his hard and fiery rage; And giv'n thyself a lesson to the fool

Nor golden Cræsus in the Persian cage: Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,

By which it may be seen, that neither gold, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. Nor stronger wisdom, nor the courage bold,

There need not schools, nor the professor's chair, Nor strength, nor art, nor beauty's powerful face, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart: Can hold with Venus any equal pace :

He, who has not enough for these to spare, What party in her realm have they, who rules Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart,

The rolling world, and makes all people fools ;
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair: Such as these were, who in her snare were caught,
Nature is always wise in every part.

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,
O thou, brave ruin of the passed time,

Was naked, fleeting in the ample sea;
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms, And, downwards from the waist, was hid from sight
And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms,

By the green waves, as any crystal bright:
Callid honour! at the matin hour sublime,

A citole in her right hand softly held ; And the grey ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime, And on her head, a type of summer swellid

And thy full vigour, and the eating harms And blush'd like fire, aad like all Eden smelld,




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