Front matter (continued 5)

John Milton. 1608-1674

318. On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

John Milton. 1608-1674

319. To Mr. Lawrence

LAWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son, Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help wast a sullen day; what may be won From the hard Season gaining: time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre? He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

John Milton. 1608-1674

320. To Cyriack Skinner

CYRIACK, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes, Which others at their Barr so often wrench: To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that after no repenting drawes; Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intend, and what the French. To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

John Milton. 1608-1674

321. On His Deceased Wife

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint. Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in the old Law did save, And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight, Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O as to embrace me she enclin'd I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

John Milton. 1608-1674

322. Light

HAIL holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, So were I equal'd with them in renown. Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.

John Milton. 1608-1674

323. From 'Samson Agonistes' i

OH how comely it is and how reviving To the Spirits of just men long opprest! When God into the hands of thir deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour, The brute and boist'rous force of violent men Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour Truth; He all thir Ammunition And feats of War defeats With plain Heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour arm'd, Thir Armories and Magazins contemns, Renders them useless, while With winged expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd.

John Milton. 1608-1674

324. From 'Samson Agonistes' ii

ALL is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent. His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

325. A Doubt of Martyrdom

O FOR some honest lover's ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the noble chaplets wear Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly.

For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crown'd T' have loved alone will not suffice, Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoy'd.

What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and 's thither gone Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms?

For there the judges all are just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear, Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.

Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, Give me the woman here!

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

326. The Constant Lover

OUT upon it, I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on 't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

327. Why so Pale and Wan?

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't? Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! This will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642

328. When, Dearest, I but think of Thee

WHEN, dearest, I but think of thee, Methinks all things that lovely be Are present, and my soul delighted: For beauties that from worth arise Are like the grace of deities, Still present with us, tho' unsighted.

Thus while I sit and sigh the day With all his borrow'd lights away, Till night's black wings do overtake me, Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, As sudden lights do sleepy men, So they by their bright rays awake me.

Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection: Since in the darkest night they may By love's quick motion find a way To see each other by reflection.

The waving sea can with each flood Bathe some high promont that hath stood Far from the main up in the river: O think not then but love can do As much! for that 's an ocean too, Which flows not every day, but ever!

Sir Richard Fanshawe. 1608-1666

329. A Rose

BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born— Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death!

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

330. To Chloe Who for his sake wished herself younger

THERE are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awaken'd sense; The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me and I loved you Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young keeps young still.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

331. Falsehood

STILL do the stars impart their light To those that travel in the night; Still time runs on, nor doth the hand Or shadow on the dial stand; The streams still glide and constant are: Only thy mind Untrue I find, Which carelessly Neglects to be Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

Fool that I am! I do recall My words, and swear thou'rt like them all, Thou seem'st like stars to nourish fire, But O how cold is thy desire! And like the hand upon the brass Thou point'st at me In mockery; If I come nigh Shade-like thou'lt fly, And as the stream with murmur pass.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

332. On the Queen's Return from the Low Countries

HALLOW the threshold, crown the posts anew! The day shall have its due. Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, On which let honour breathe; Then throw it round the temples of our Queen! 'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.

When greater tempests than on sea before Received her on the shore; When she was shot at 'for the King's own good' By legions hired to blood; How bravely did she do, how bravely bear! And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.

Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness: A gather'd mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace: Thus, arm'd with innocence, secure they move Whose highest 'treason' is but highest love.

William Cartwright. 1611-1643

333. On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly

SHE who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, And died as free from sickness as she lived. Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven, She only saw her time and stept to Heaven; Where seraphims view all her glories o'er, As one return'd that had been there before. For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seem'd rather assumed than born; So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were That she could die, or that she could live here.

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 1612-1650

334. I'll never love Thee more

MY dear and only Love, I pray That little world of thee Be govern'd by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part (Which virtuous souls abhor), And hold a synod in thine heart, I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all.

And in the empire of thine heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part Or dare to vie with me, Or if Committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful then, And constant of thy word, I'll make thee glorious by my pen And famous by my sword; I'll serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before; I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee more and more.

Thomas Jordan. 1612?-1685

335. Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant

LET us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice! The changeable world to our joy is unjust, All treasure 's uncertain, Then down with your dust! In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea; With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense, For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.

Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown'd And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour That none but the stars Are thought fit to attend her, Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.

Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, Turn all our tranquill'ty to sighs and to tears? Let 's eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, 'Tis certain, Post mortem Nulla voluptas. For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense, Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

336. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress

WHOE'ER she be— That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie, Lock'd up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call'd my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty, That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A Face, that 's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest.

A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displace The neighbour diamond, and outface That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are:

Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed Heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right.

Days, that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by th' absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend!'

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions—but her story.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

337. The Weeper

HAIL, sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever bubbling things, Thawing crystal, snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come, And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.

The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.

When sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, —For she is a Queen— Then is she drest by none but thee: Then and only then she wears Her richest pearls—I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

Does the night arise? Still thy tears do fall and fall. Does night lose her eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all. Let day and night do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

Not So long she lived Will thy tomb report of thee; But So long she grieved: Thus must we date thy memory. Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears.

Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair eyes Your fruitful mothers, What make you here? What hopes can 'tice You to be born? What cause can borrow You from those nests of noble sorrow?

Whither away so fast For sure the sordid earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head. No such thing: we go to meet A worthier object—our Lord's feet.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with lusty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death. She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do. Nor has she e'er yet understood Why, to show love, she should shed blood; Yet, though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die. Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love….

Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel for a martyrdom. No home for her, confesses she, But where she may a martyr be. She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem; She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give Them God, and teach them how to live In Him; or, if they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die. So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.

Farewell then, all the world, adieu! Teresa is no more for you. Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, Never till now esteemed toys!

Farewell whatever dear may be— Mother's arms, or father's knee! Farewell house, and farewell home! She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.

Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom….

O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain! Of intolerable joys! Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would for ever so be slain; And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he still may die! How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at once die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh, and then,— O what? Ask not the tongues of men.

Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, And hold them fast for ever there. So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come, And in her first ranks make thee room; Where, 'mongst her snowy family, Immortal welcomes wait for thee. O what delight, when she shall stand And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses! What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart!

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall shine, And thy sufferings be divine. Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew. Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ Love's noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, And with them all about thee bow To Him; put on, He'll say, put on, My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls, whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars; and so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go. And, wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, Which who in death would live to see, Must learn in life to die like thee.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

339. Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa

O THOU undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and fires; By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the seraphim!); By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

340. Verses from the Shepherds' Hymn

WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the East, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow— A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?

No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie. She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome—tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes— But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves! Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

341. Christ Crucified

THY restless feet now cannot go For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though They swim, alas! in their own flood?

Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift! It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together

TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed. For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas

IF to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land betwixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

345. Gratiana Dancing

SHE beat the happy pavement— By such a star made firmament, Which now no more the roof envìes! But swells up high, with Atlas even, Bearing the brighter nobler heaven, And, in her, all the deities.

Each step trod out a Lover's thought, And the ambitious hopes he brought Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts, Such sweet command and gentle awe, As, when she ceased, we sighing saw The floor lay paved with broken hearts.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

346. To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair

AMARANTHA sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly!

Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th' East, To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest, But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light In ribbands, and o'ercloud in night, Like the Sun in 's early ray; But shake your head, and scatter day!

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

347. The Grasshopper

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!

The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, And all these merry days mak'st merry men, Thyself, and melancholy streams.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

348. To Althea, from Prison

WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

349. Anacreontics 1. Drinking

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in Nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there—for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

350. Anacreontics 2. The Epicure

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowerly beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, And around it roses growing, What should I do but drink away The heat and troubles of the day? In this more than kingly state Love himself on me shall wait. Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! And mingled cast into the cup Wit and mirth and noble fires, Vigorous health and gay desires. The wheel of life no less will stay In a smooth than rugged way: Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments shower?— Nobler wines why do we pour?— Beauteous flowers why do we spread Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses while I live, Now your wines and ointments give: After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have: All are Stoics in the grave.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

351. Anacreontics 3. The Swallow

FOOLISH prater, what dost thou So early at my window do? Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day; A dream that ne'er must equall'd be By all that waking eyes may see. Thou this damage to repair Nothing half so sweet and fair, Nothing half so good, canst bring, Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

352. On the Death of Mr. William Hervey

IT was a dismal and a fearful night: Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light, When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breast By something liker Death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know!

My sweet companion and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever and my life to moan? O, thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony Besieged around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas! my treasure 's gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry— Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker join And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul: as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, But low and humble as his grave. So high that all the virtues there did come, As to their chiefest seat Conspicuous and great; So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget; And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retired, and gave to them their due. For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always lived, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the Sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.

But happy Thou, ta'en from this frantic age, Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! A fitter time for Heaven no soul e'er chose— The place now only free from those. There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; And wheresoe'er thou casts thy view Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667

353. The Wish

WELL then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made Thy happy tenant of your shade? Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood: Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.

Hoe happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.

Alexander Brome. 1620-1666

354. The Resolve

TELL me not of a face that 's fair, Nor lip and cheek that 's red, Nor of the tresses of her hair, Nor curls in order laid, Nor of a rare seraphic voice That like an angel sings; Though if I were to take my choice I would have all these things: But if that thou wilt have me love, And it must be a she, The only argument can move Is that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, Lilies their whiteness stain; What fool is he that shadows seeks And may the substance gain? Then if thou'lt have me love a lass, Let it be one that 's kind: Else I'm a servant to the glass That 's with Canary lined.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

355. An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

THE forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Caesar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain— But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak—

Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Caresbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forced power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust.

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic's hand— How fit he is to sway That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year?

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all States not free Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his particolour'd mind, But, from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect, Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

356. A Garden Written after the Civil Wars

SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colours stand display'd: Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd. Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd, She runs you through, nor asks the word. O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With wat'ry if not flaming sword; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste! Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

357. To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

358. The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers

SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born? Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound; Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid, Where I may see the glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procure That violets may a longer age endure.

But O, young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make th' example yours; And ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

359. Thoughts in a Garden

HOW vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that 's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

360. Bermudas

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along The listening woods received this song:

'What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage: He gave us this eternal Spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air: He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O, let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'

Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678

361. An Epitaph

ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame! 'Tis to commend her, but to name. Courtship which, living, she declined, When dead, to offer were unkind: Nor can the truest wit, or friend, Without detracting, her commend.

To say—she lived a virgin chaste In this age loose and all unlaced; Nor was, when vice is so allowed, Of virtue or ashamed or proud; That her soul was on Heaven so bent, No minute but it came and went; That, ready her last debt to pay, She summ'd her life up every day; Modest as morn, as mid-day bright, Gentle as evening, cool as night: —'Tis true; but all too weakly said. 'Twas more significant, she's dead.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

362. The Retreat

HAPPY those early days, when I Shin'd in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought: When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back—at that short space— Could see a glimpse of His bright face: When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r, My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity: Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence th' enlightned spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

363. Peace

MY soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend, And—O my soul, awake!— Did in pure love descend To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure But One who never changes— Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

364. The Timber

SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive—thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke—in life—thy peace.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695

365. Friends Departed

THEY are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit ling'ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have show'd them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

John Bunyan. 1628-1688

366. The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation

HE that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

367. Thomas the Rhymer

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett o' her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap, And louted low down on his knee 'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven! For thy peer on earth could never be.'

'O no, O no, Thomas' she said, 'That name does not belang to me; I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, That am hither come to visit thee.

'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said; 'Harp and carp along wi' me; And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be.'

'Betide me weal; betide me woe, That weird shall never daunten me.' Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree.

'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said, 'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me; And ye maun serve me seven years, Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'

She 's mounted on her milk-white steed, She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene'er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind.

O they rade on, and farther on, The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach'd a desert wide, And living land was left behind.

'Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide ye there a little space, And I will show you ferlies three.

'O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi' thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires.

'And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven.

'And see ye not yon bonny road That winds about the fernie brae? That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae.

'But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye'll ne'er win back to your ain countrie.'

O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee; And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea.

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded thro' red blude to the knee; For a' the blude that 's shed on the earth Rins through the springs o' that countrie.

Syne they came to a garden green, And she pu'd an apple frae a tree: 'Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.'

'My tongue is my ain,' true Thomas he said; 'A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I might be.

'I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!'— 'Now haud thy peace, Thomas,' she said, 'For as I say, so must it be.'

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair o' shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen.

ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel). leven] ?lawn. dought] could.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

368. Sir Patrick Spens

I. The Sailing

THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?'

O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday.

II. The Return

'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn.

'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel'd shoon; But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed That flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!

skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed afloat. kames] combs.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

369. The Lass of Lochroyan

'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will bind my middle jimp Wi' a lang, lang linen band?

'O wha will kame my yellow hair, With a haw bayberry kame? And wha will be my babe's father Till Gregory come hame?'

'They father, he will shoe thy foot, Thy brother will glove thy hand, Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp Wi' a lang, lang linen band.

'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair, Wi' a haw bayberry kame; The Almighty will be thy babe's father Till Gregory come hame.'

'And wha will build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea? For I will go to seek my love, My ain love Gregory.'

Up then spak her father dear, A wafu' man was he; 'And I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea.

'And I will build a bonny ship, And set her on the sea, And ye sal gae and seek your love, Your ain love Gregory.'

Then he 's gart build a bonny ship, And set it on the sea, Wi' four-and-twenty mariners, To bear her company.

O he 's gart build a bonny ship, To sail on the salt sea; The mast was o' the beaten gold, The sails o' cramoisie.

The sides were o' the gude stout aik, The deck o' mountain pine, The anchor o' the silver shene, The ropes o' silken twine.

She hadna sail'd but twenty leagues, But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi' a rank reiver, And a' his companie.

'Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon a' our sin? Or are ye Mary Magdalane, Was born at Bethlam?'

'I'm no the Queen of Heaven hie, Come to pardon ye your sin, Nor am I Mary Magdalane, Was born in Bethlam.

'But I'm the lass of Lochroyan, That 's sailing on the sea To see if I can find my love, My ain love Gregory.'

'O see na ye yon bonny bower? It 's a' covered owre wi' tin; When thou hast sail'd it round about, Lord Gregory is within.'

And when she saw the stately tower, Shining both clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, Built on a rock of height,

Says, 'Row the boat, my mariners, And bring me to the land, For yonder I see my love's castle, Close by the salt sea strand.'

She sail'd it round, and sail'd it round, And loud and loud cried she, 'Now break, now break your fairy charms, And set my true-love free.'

She 's ta'en her young son in her arms, And to the door she 's gane, And long she knock'd, and sair she ca'd. But answer got she nane.

'O open, open, Gregory! O open! if ye be within; For here 's the lass of Lochroyan, Come far fra kith and kin.

'O open the door, Lord Gregory! O open and let me in! The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory, The rain drops fra my chin.

'The shoe is frozen to my foot, The glove unto my hand, The wet drops fra my yellow hair, Na langer dow I stand.'

O up then spak his ill mither, —An ill death may she die! 'Ye're no the lass of Lochroyan, She 's far out-owre the sea.

'Awa', awa', ye ill woman, Ye're no come here for gude; Ye're but some witch or wil' warlock, Or mermaid o' the flood.'

'I am neither witch nor wil' warlock, Nor mermaid o' the sea, But I am Annie of Lochroyan, O open the door to me!'

'Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, As I trow thou binna she, Now tell me of some love-tokens That pass'd 'tween thee and me.'

'O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, As we sat at the wine, We changed the rings frae our fingers? And I can shew thee thine.

'O yours was gude, and gude enough, But ay the best was mine, For yours was o' the gude red gowd, But mine o' the diamond fine.

'Yours was o' the gude red gowd, Mine o' the diamond fine; Mine was o' the purest troth, But thine was false within.'

'If ye be the lass of Lochroyan, As I kenna thou be, Tell me some mair o' the love-tokens Pass'd between thee and me.'

'And dinna ye mind, love Gregory! As we sat on the hill, Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid, Right sair against my will?

'Now open the door, love Gregory! Open the door! I pray; For thy young son is in my arms, And will be dead ere day.'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman, So loud I hear ye lie; For Annie of the Lochroyan Is far out-owre the sea.'

Fair Annie turn'd her round about: 'Weel, sine that it be sae, May ne'er woman that has borne a son Hae a heart sae fu' o' wae!

'Tak down, tak down that mast o' gowd, Set up a mast of tree; It disna become a forsaken lady To sail sae royallie.'

When the cock has crawn, and the day did dawn, And the sun began to peep, Up than raise Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, I wish it may bring good! That the bonny lass of Lochroyan At my bower window stood.

'O I hae dream'd a dream, mither, The thought o't gars me greet! That fair Annie of Lochroyan Lay dead at my bed-feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan That ye mak a' this mane, She stood last night at your bower-door, But I hae sent her hame.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman, An ill death may ye die! That wadna open the door yoursell Nor yet wad waken me.'

O he 's gane down to yon shore-side, As fast as he could dree, And there he saw fair Annie's bark A rowing owre the sea.

'O Annie, Annie,' loud he cried, 'O Annie, O Annie, bide!' But ay the mair he cried 'Annie,' The braider grew the tide.

'O Annie, Annie, dear Annie, Dear Annie, speak to me!' But ay the louder he gan call, The louder roar'd the sea.

The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie And dash'd the boat on shore; Fair Annie's corpse was in the faem, The babe rose never more.

Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks And made a wafu' moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, His bonny son was gone.

'O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair, And coral, coral was her lips, Nane might with her compare.'

Then first he kiss'd her pale, pale cheek, And syne he kiss'd her chin, And syne he kiss'd her wane, wane lips, There was na breath within.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She turn'd my true-love frae my door, Who cam so far to me.

'O wae betide my ill mither, An ill death may she die! She has no been the deid o' ane, But she 's been the deid of three.'

Then he 's ta'en out a little dart, Hung low down by his gore, He thrust it through and through his heart, And words spak never more.

jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry] ?a corruption for 'braw ivory': or bayberry may=laurel-wood. cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber. dow] can. gore] skirt, waist.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

370. The Dowie Houms of Yarrow

LATE at een, drinkin' the wine, And ere they paid the lawin', They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawin'.

'O stay at hame, my noble lord! O stay at hame, my marrow! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

'O fare ye weel, my lady gay! O fare ye weel, my Sarah! For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As she had done before, O; She belted on his noble brand, An' he 's awa to Yarrow.

O he 's gane up yon high, high hill— I wat he gaed wi' sorrow— An' in a den spied nine arm'd men, I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O are ye come to drink the wine, As ye hae doon before, O? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'

'I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae don before, O, But I am come to wield the brand, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'

Four he hurt, an' five he slew, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An' ran his body thorrow.

'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An' tell your sister Sarah To come an' lift her noble lord, Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'

'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I ken'd there wad be sorrow; I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'

She gaed up yon high, high hill— I wat she gaed wi' sorrow— An' in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair, As oft she did before, O; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a' this sorrow? I'll wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow.'

'O haud your tongue, my father dear, An' dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow.

'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, For they hae bred our sorrow; I wiss that they had a' gane mad When they cam first to Yarrow.'

lawin'] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] doleful. houms] water-meads.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

371. Clerk Saunders

CLERK SAUNDERS and may Margaret Walk'd owre yon garden green; And deep and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between.

'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said, 'A bed for you and me!' 'Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret, 'Till anes we married be!'

'Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard And slowly lift the pin; And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.

'Take you a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonnie e'en, And you may swear, and save your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.'

It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red:

When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning bright: They said, 'We hae but one sister, And behold her lying with a knight!'

Then out and spake the first o' them, 'I bear the sword shall gar him die.' And out and spake the second o' them, 'His father has nae mair but he.'

And out and spake the third o' them, 'I wot that they are lovers dear.' And out and spake the fourth o' them, 'They hae been in love this mony a year.'

Then out and spake the fifth o' them, 'It were great sin true love to twain.' And out and spake the sixth o' them, 'It were shame to slay a sleeping man.'

Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleepit sound Until the day began to daw'; And kindly she to him did say, 'It is time, true love, you were awa'.'

But he lay still, and sleepit sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She look'd atween her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his e'en.

Then in and came her father dear; Said, 'Let a' your mourning be; I'll carry the dead corse to the clay, And I'll come back and comfort thee.'

'Comfort weel your seven sons, For comforted I will never be: I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me.'

The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day.

'Are ye sleeping, Marg'ret?' he says, 'Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sall never get, Nor our true love sall never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.'

'My mouth it is full cold, Marg'ret; It has the smell, now, of the ground; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang.

'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.'

'Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell what comes o' women, I wot, who die in strong traivelling?'

'Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see.

'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; I wot the wild fowls are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be miss'd away.'

Then she has taken a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

'I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; And ay I thank ye heartilie; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee.'

It 's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climb'd the wall, and follow'd him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him.

'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?'

'There 's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There 's nae room at my feet; My bed it is fu' lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

'Cauld mould is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down Than my resting-place is weet.

'But plait a wand o' bonny birk, And lay it on my breast; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest.'

Then up and crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the gray: ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg'ret, That you were going away.

'And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me.'

striped] thrust. twin] part in two.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

372. Fair Annie

THE reivers they stole Fair Annie, As she walk'd by the sea; But a noble knight was her ransom soon, Wi' gowd and white monie.

She bided in strangers' land wi' him, And none knew whence she cam; She lived in the castle wi' her love, But never told her name.

'It 's narrow, narrow, mak your bed, And learn to lie your lane; For I'm gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie, A braw Bride to bring hame. Wi' her I will get gowd and gear, Wi' you I ne'er gat nane.

'But wha will bake my bridal bread, Or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale?'

It 's I will bake your bridal bread, And brew your bridal ale; And I will welcome your bright Bride, That you bring owre the dale.'

'But she that welcomes my bright Bride Maun gang like maiden fair; She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, And comely braid her hair.

'Bind up, bind up your yellow hair, And tie it on your neck; And see you look as maiden-like As the day that first we met.'

'O how can I gang maiden-like, When maiden I am nane? Have I not borne six sons to thee, And am wi' child again?'

'I'll put cooks into my kitchen, And stewards in my hall, And I'll have bakers for my bread, And brewers for my ale; But you're to welcome my bright Bride, That I bring owre the dale.'

Three months and a day were gane and past, Fair Annie she gat word That her love's ship was come at last, Wi' his bright young Bride aboard.

She 's ta'en her young son in her arms, Anither in her hand; And she 's gane up to the highest tower, Looks over sea and land.

'Come doun, come doun, my mother dear, Come aff the castle wa'! I fear if langer ye stand there, Ye'll let yoursell doun fa'.'

She 's ta'en a cake o' the best bread, A stoup o' the best wine, And a' the keys upon her arm, And to the yett is gane.

'O ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your castles and your towers; Ye're welcome hame, my ain gude lord, To your ha's, but and your bowers. And welcome to your hame, fair lady! For a' that 's here is yours.'

'O whatna lady 's that, my lord, That welcomes you and me? Gin I be lang about this place, Her friend I mean to be.'

Fair Annie served the lang tables Wi' the white bread and the wine; But ay she drank the wan water To keep her colour fine.

And she gaed by the first table, And smiled upon them a'; But ere she reach'd the second table, The tears began to fa'.

She took a napkin lang and white, And hung it on a pin; It was to wipe away the tears, As she gaed out and in.

When bells were rung and mass was sung, And a' men bound for bed, The bridegroom and the bonny Bride In ae chamber were laid.

Fair Annie's ta'en a harp in her hand, To harp thir twa asleep; But ay, as she harpit and she sang, Fu' sairly did she weep.

'O gin my sons were seven rats, Rinnin' on the castle wa', And I mysell a great grey cat, I soon wad worry them a'!

'O gin my sons were seven hares, Rinnin' owre yon lily lea, And I mysell a good greyhound, Soon worried they a' should be!'

Then out and spak the bonny young Bride, In bride-bed where she lay: 'That 's like my sister Annie,' she says; 'Wha is it doth sing and play?

'I'll put on my gown,' said the new-come Bride, 'And my shoes upon my feet; I will see wha doth sae sadly sing, And what is it gars her greet.

'What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper, That ye mak sic a mane? Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds, Or is a' your white bread gane?'

'It isna because my wine is spilt, Or that my white bread's gane; But because I've lost my true love's love, And he 's wed to anither ane.'

'Noo tell me wha was your father?' she says, 'Noo tell me wha was your mother? And had ye ony sister?' she says, 'And had ye ever a brother?'

'The Earl of Wemyss was my father, The Countess of Wemyss my mother, Young Elinor she was my sister dear, And Lord John he was my brother.'

'If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, I wot sae was he mine; And it 's O my sister Annie! Your love ye sallna tyne.

'Tak your husband, my sister dear; You ne'er were wrang'd for me, Beyond a kiss o' his merry mouth As we cam owre the sea.

'Seven ships, loaded weel, Cam owre the sea wi' me; Ane o' them will tak me hame, And six I'll gie to thee.'

jimp] trim. yett] gate. tyne] lose.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

373. Edward, Edward

'WHY does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.'

'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.'

'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!'

'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.'

'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.'

'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?'

'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!'

dule ye dree] grief you suffer.

Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent.

374. Edom o' Gordon

IT fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, 'We maun draw to a hauld.

'And what a hauld sall we draw to, My merry men and me? We will gae to the house o' the Rodes, To see that fair ladye.'

The lady stood on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down; There she was ware of a host of men Cam riding towards the town.

'O see ye not, my merry men a', O see ye not what I see? Methinks I see a host of men; I marvel wha they be.'

She ween'd it had been her lovely lord, As he cam riding hame; It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, Wha reck'd nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell, And putten on her gown, But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were lighted about the place.

The lady ran up to her tower-head, Sae fast as she could hie, To see if by her fair speeches She could wi' him agree.

'Come doun to me, ye lady gay, Come doun, come doun to me; This night sall ye lig within mine arms, To-morrow my bride sall be.'

'I winna come down, ye fals Gordon, I winna come down to thee; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, That is sae far frae me.'

'Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, Gie owre your house to me; Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, But and your babies three.'

'I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon, To nae sic traitor as yee; And if ye brenn my ain dear babes, My lord sall mak ye dree.

'Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun; For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes, we been undone!'

She stood upon her castle wa', And let twa bullets flee: She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart, And only razed his knee.

'Set fire to the house!' quo' fals Gordon, All wud wi' dule and ire: 'Fals lady, ye sall rue this deid As ye brenn in the fire!'

Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your fee; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me?

'And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your hire; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, To me lets in the fire?'

'Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, Ye paid me weel my fee: But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man— Maun either do or die.'