The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 170

THE EXEQUY

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hea.r.s.e, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind. For thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But which I practise with mine eyes: By which wet gla.s.ses I find out How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns: this, only this, My exercise and business is: So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers.

Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide pa.s.sed): And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fallen and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is, Which such a strange eclipse doth make As ne'er was read in almanac.

I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime; Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then, And all that s.p.a.ce my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world--like thine, (My little world!) That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best: With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep.

Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer Him that lent-- Not gave--thee my dear monument.

So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed.

Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee.

At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the Sun my bottom steers, And my day's compa.s.s downward bears: Nor labor I to stem the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou, like the van, first took'st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come: And slow howe'er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime), I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.

Henry King [1592-1669]

LOVE SONNETS

SONNETS From "Amoretti"

III The sovereign beauty which I do admire, Witness the world how worthy to be praised!

The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised; That being now with her huge brightness dazed, Base thing I can no more endure to view: But, looking still on her, I stand amazed At wondrous sight of so celestial hue.

So when my tongue would speak her praises due, It stopped is with thought's astonishment; And when my pen would write her t.i.tles true, It ravished is with fancy's wonderment: Yet in my heart I then both speak and write The wonder that my wit cannot indite.

VIII More than most fair, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker near; No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire That to the world naught else be counted dear; Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; But angels come to lead frail minds to rest In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound.

You frame my thoughts, and fas.h.i.+on me within; You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak; You calm the storm that pa.s.sion did begin, Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.

Dark is the world, where your light s.h.i.+ned never; Well is he born that may behold you ever.

XXIV When I behold that beauty's wonderment, And rare perfection of each goodly part, Of Nature's still the only complement, I honor and admire the Maker's art.

But when I feel the bitter baleful smart Which her fair eyes un'wares do work in me, That death out of their s.h.i.+ny beams do dart, I think that I a new Pandora see, Whom all the G.o.ds in council did agree Into this sinful world from heaven to send, That she to wicked men a scourge should be, For all their faults with which they did offend.

But since ye are my scourge, I will entreat That for my faults ye will me gently beat.

x.x.xIV Like as a s.h.i.+p, that through the ocean wide, By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me placed; Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my life, Will s.h.i.+ne again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief: Till then I wander care-full, comfortless, In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

LV So oft as I her beauty do behold, And therewith do her cruelty compare, I marvel of what substance was the mould, The which her made at once so cruel fair; Not earth, for her high thoughts more heavenly are; Not water, for her love doth burn like fire; Not air, for she is not so light or rare; Not fire, for she doth freeze with faint desire.

Then needs another element inquire Whereof she might be made--that is, the sky; For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire, And eke her mind is pure immortal high.

Then, since to heaven ye likened are the best, Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

LXVIII Most glorious Lord of Life! that on this day Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And, having harrowed h.e.l.l, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win, This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin; And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, May live forever in felicity; And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again, And for thy sake, that all 'like dear didst buy, With love may one another entertain!

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought: Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

LXX Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, In whose coat-armor richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, Unless she do him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore herself soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew; Where everyone that misseth then her mate Shall be by him amerced with penance due.

Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime; For none can call again the pa.s.sed time.

LXXV One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey.

"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain essay A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise."

"Not so," quoth I; "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

LXXIX Men call you fair, and you do credit it, For that yourself ye daily such do see: But the true fair, that is the gentle wit And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me: For all the rest, however fair it be, Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue; But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue.

That is true beauty; that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; Derived from that fair Spirit from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed: He only fair, and what he fair hath made; All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.

Edmund Spenser [1552?-1599]

SONNETS From "Astrophel and Stella"

I Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That She, dear She! might take some pleasure of my pain; Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain: I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain: But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay.

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: "Fool!" said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write!"

x.x.xI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks. Thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.