Part 1 — ENGLISH VERSE (continued 2)

"I feel it when I sorrow most; I hold it true, whate'er befall; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all."

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes entendeth, Which now my breast, surcharg'd, to music lendeth! To you, to you, all song of praise is due, Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Oh, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the dust descend; Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie, Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and—sans end!

For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand.

"Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus Silvae laborantes, geluque Flumina constiterint acuto."

Ah, yet would God this flesh of mine might be Where air would wash and long leaves cover me, Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, Or where the wind's feet shine along the sea.

Blow, northerne wynd, Sent þou my suetyng! Blow, norþern wynd, Blou! blou! blou!

I that in heill wes and glaidness, Am trublit now with gret seikness, And feblit with infirmitie; Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlets plays; Come, let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.

I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirconnell lea!

O sing unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree.

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary!

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo— Ha, ha, the wooing o't! On blithe Yule night, when we were fou— Ha, ha, the wooing o't! Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't!

My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, (Toll slowly) And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness— Round our restlessness His rest.

"Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" "A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)

Laetabundus Exultet fidelis chorus, Alleluia! Egidio psallat coetus Iste laetus, Alleluia!

Sermone Marcus Tullius, Fortuna Cesar Julius Tibi non equantur. Tibi summa prudentia, Prefulgens et potentia Celesti dono dantur.

Quant li solleiz conviset en leon En icel tens qu'est ortus pliadon Perunt matin, Une pulcellet odit molt gent plorer Et son ami dolcement regreter, Ex si lli dis.

Men may merci have, traytour not to save, for luf ne for awe, Atteynt of traytorie, suld haf no mercie, wiþ no maner lawe.

For Edward gode dede Þe Baliol did him mede a wikked bounte. Turne we ageyn to rede and on our geste to spede a Maddok þer left we.

Als þai haf wrytenn and sayd Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd, In symple speche as I couthe, That is lightest in mannes mouthe. I mad noght for no disours, Ne for no seggers no harpours, Bot for þe luf of symple menn That strange Inglis cann not kenn. For many it ere that strange Inglis In ryme wate never what it is, And bot þai wist what it mente Ellis me thoght it were alle shente. I made it not for to be praysed, Bot at þe lewed menn were aysed. If it were made in ryme couwee, Or in strangere or entrelace, Þat rede Inglis it ere inowe Þat couthe not haf coppled a kowe, Þat outhere in couwee or in baston Som suld haf ben fordon, So þat fele men þat it herde Suld not witte howe þat it ferde. ... And forsoth I couth noght So strange Inglis as þai wroght, And menn besoght me many a tyme To turne it bot in light ryme. þai sayd, if I in strange it turne, To here it manyon suld skurne. For it ere names fulle selcouthe, þat ere not used now in mouthe. And therfore for the comonalte, þat blythely wild listen to me, On light lange I it begann, For luf of the lewed mann.

Stand wel, moder, under rode, Byholt þy sone wiþ glade mode; Blyþe, moder, myht þou be! Sone, hou shulde y blyþe stonde? Y se þin fet, y se þin honde Nayled to þe harde tre.

Listeth, lordes, in good entent, And I wol telle verrayment Of mirthe and of solas; Al of a knyght was fair and gent In bataille and in tourneyment, His name was sir Thopas ... An elf-queen wol I love, y-wis, For in this world no womman is Worthy to be my make In toune; Alle othere wommen I forsake, And to an elf-queen I me take By dale and eek by doune!

"'Myn eres aken of thy drasty speche; Now swiche a rym the devel I beteche! This may wel be rym dogerel', quod he."

My patent pardouns, ye may se, Cum fra the Cane of Tartarei, Weill seald with oster schellis; Thocht ye have na contritioun, Ye sall have full remissioun, With help of buiks and bellis.

Seinte Marie! levedi briht, Moder thou art of muchel miht, Quene in hevene of feire ble; Gabriel to the he lihte, Tho he brouhte al wid rihte Then holi gost to lihten in the. Godes word ful wel thou cnewe; Ful mildeliche thereto thou bewe, And saidest, "So it mote be!" Thi thone was studevast ant trewe; For the joye that to was newe, Levedi, thou have merci of me!

All, dear Nature's children sweet, Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, Blessing their sense! Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence.

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer not tarry; But put unto to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.

I am a man of war and might, And know thus much, that I can fight, Whether I am i' th' wrong or right, Devoutly. No woman under heaven I fear, New oaths I can exactly swear, And forty healths my brains will bear Most stoutly.

A wayle whyte ase whalles bon, A grein in golde þat goldly shon, A tortle þat min herte is on, In toune trewe; Hire gladshipe nes never gon, Whil y may glewe.

Of on that is so fayr and briȝt, velut maris stella, Briȝter than the day is liȝt, parens et puella; Ic crie to the, thou se to me, Levedy, preye thi sone for me, tam pia, That ic mote come to the Maria.

Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us An' foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, An' e'en devotion!

O goodly hand, Wherein doth stand My heart distract in pain; Dear hand, alas! In little space My life thou dost restrain.

Old Ocean's praise Demands my lays; A truly British theme I sing;

A theme so great, I dare compete, And join with Ocean, Ocean's king.

No more, no more This worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!

"Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres."

Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good! Hail, ye Plebeian Underwood! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice.

To-night this sunset spreads two golden wings Cleaving the western sky; Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings Of strenuous flight must die.

Ye dainty Nymphs, that in this blessed brook Do bathe your breast, Forsake your watery bowers, and hither look At my request: And eke you Virgins that on Parnasse dwell, Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well, Help me to blaze Her worthy praise, Which in her sex doth all excel.

You, that will a wonder know, Go with me, Two suns in a heaven of snow Both burning be; All they fire, that do but eye them, But the snow's unmelted by them.

Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop As they crop.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weatherproof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry.

When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us (said He) pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.

In vain, through every changeful year Did Nature lead him as before; A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.

Survival of the fittest, adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there's soul in everything that squirms.

Mary mine that art Mary's Rose, Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you.

Hail seint michel, with the lange sper! Fair beth thi winges: up thi scholder Thou hast a rede kirtil a non to thi fote. Thou ert best angle that ever god makid. This vers is ful wel i-wrogȝt; Hit is of wel furre y-brogȝt.

What beauty would have lovely styled, What manners pretty, nature mild, What wonder perfect, all were filed Upon record in this blest child. And till the coming of the soul To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies: And all that's best of dark or bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,— Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Humblest of herte, hyest of reverence, Benigne flour, coroune of vertues alle, Sheweth unto your rial excellence Your servaunt, if I durste me so calle, His mortal harm, in which he is y-falle, And noght al only for his evel fare, But for your renoun, as he shal declare.

And on the smale grene twistis sat The lytil suete nyghtingale, and song So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat Of luvis use, now soft now lowd among, That all the gardynis and the wallis rong Ryght of thaire song, and on the copill next Of thaire suete armony, and lo the text.

For men have marble, women waxen, minds, And therefore are they form'd as marble will; The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill: Then call them not the authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

In a far country that I cannot name, And on a year long ages past away, A King there dwelt in rest and ease and fame, And richer than the Emperor is to-day: The very thought of what this man might say From dusk to dawn kept many a lord awake, For fear of him did many a great man quake.

The story sheweth further, that, after man was blyste, The Lord did create woman owte of a ribbe of man, Which woman was deceyvyd with the Serpentes darkned myste; By whose synn ower nature is so weake no good we can; Wherfor they were dejectyd and caste from thence than Unto dolloure and myseri and to traveyle and payne, Untyll Godes spryght renuid; and so we ende certayne.

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air; The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity; The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair.

Trew king, that sittes in trone, Unto the I tell my tale, And unto the I bid a bone, For thou ert bute of all my bale: Als thou made midelerd and the mone, And bestes and fowles grete and smale. Unto me send thi socore sone, And dresce my dedes in this dale.

Since love is such that as ye wot Cannot always be wisely used, I say, therefore, then blame me not, Though I therein have been abused. For as with cause I am accused, Guilty I grant such was my lot; And though it cannot be excused, Yet let such folly be forgot.

In a chirche þer i con knel Þis ender day in on morwenynge, Me lyked þe servise wonder wel, For þi þe lengore con i lynge. I seiȝ a clerk a book forþ bringe, Þat prikked was in mony a plas; Faste he souȝte what he schulde synge, And al was Deo gracias!

This Julius to the Capitolie wente Upon a day, as he was wont to goon, And in the Capitolie anon him hente This false Brutus, and his othere foon, And stikede him with boydekins anoon With many a wounde, and thus they lete him lye; But never gronte he at no strook but oon, Or elles at two, but if his storie lye.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When rung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word—Farewell!—Farewell!

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!

She sat, and sewed, that hath done me the wrong Whereof I plain, and have done many a day; And, whilst she heard my plaint in piteous song, She wished my heart the sampler, that it lay. The blind master, whom I have served so long, Grudging to hear that he did hear her say, Made her own weapon do her finger bleed, To feel if pricking were so good in deed.

O! who can lead, then, a more happie life Than he that with cleane minde, and heart sincere, No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife, No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare; Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife, That in the sacred temples he may reare A trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure, Or may abound in riches above measure.

For as with equal rage, and equal might, Two adverse winds combat, with billows proud, And neither yield (seas, skies maintain like fight, Wave against wave oppos'd, and cloud to cloud); So war both sides with obstinate despite, With like revenge; and neither party bow'd: Fronting each other with confounding blows, No wound one sword unto the other owes.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

They looked a manly, generous generation; Beards, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and thick, Their accents firm and loud in conversation, Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick, Showed them prepared, on proper provocation, To give the lie, pull noses, stab and kick; And for that very reason, it is said, They were so very courteous and well-bred.

With every morn their love grew tenderer, With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden stir, But her full shape would all his seeing fill; And his continual voice was pleasanter To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wished that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

O hie honour, sweit hevinlie flour degest, Gem verteous, maist precious, gudliest. For hie renoun thow art guerdoun conding, Of worschip kend the glorious end and rest, But quhome in richt na worthie wicht may lest. Thy greit puissance may maist avance all thing, And poverall to mekill availl sone bring. I the require sen thow but peir art best, That efter this in thy hie blis we ring.

My love is like unto th' eternal fire, And I as those which therein do remain; Whose grievous pains is but their great desire To see the sight which they may not attain: So in hell's heat myself I feel to be, That am restrained by great extremity, The sight of her which is so dear to me. O! puissant love! and power of great avail! By whom hell may be felt e'er death assail!

By this the Northerne wagoner had set His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre That was in Ocean waves yet never wet, But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre To all that in the wide deepe wandring arre; And chearefull Chaunticlere with his note shrill Had warned once, that Phœbus fiery carre In hast was climbing up the Easterne hill, Full envious that night so long his roome did fill.

And more to lulle him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne. No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet lyes Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyaunce, or unrest, Was far far off expelled from this delicious nest.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the hare-bell that adorns the field: And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust and sad repentance filled, And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled and chastisement unkind.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, All garlanded with carven imag'ries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

The splendors of the firmament of time May be eclips'd, but are extinguish'd not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A fisher boy, that never knew his peer In dainty songs, the gentle Thomalin, With folded arms, deep sighs, and heavy cheer, Where hundred nymphs, and hundred muses in, Sunk down by Chamus' brinks; with him his dear Dear Thyrsil lay; oft times would he begin To cure his grief, and better way advise; But still his words, when his sad friend he spies, Forsook his silent tongue, to speak in watry eyes.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.

What? Ælla dead? and Bertha dying too? So fall the fairest flowrets of the plain. Who can unfold the works that heaven can do, Or who untwist the roll of fate in twain? Ælla, thy glory was thy only gain; For that, thy pleasure and thy joy was lost. Thy countrymen shall rear thee on the plain A pile of stones, as any grave can boast. Further, a just reward to thee to be, In heaven thou sing of God, on earth we'll sing of thee.

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

The dubbement dere of doun and dalez, Of wod and water and wlonke playnez, Bylde in me blys, abated my balez, Fordidde my stresse, dystryed my paynez. Doun after a strem that dryghly halez, I bowed in blys, bred-ful my braynez; The fyrre I folghed those floty valez, The more strenghthe of joye myn herte straynez, As fortune fares theras ho fraynez, Whether solace ho sende other ellez sore, The wygh, to wham her wylle ho waynez, Hyttez to have ay more and more.

Ne mai no lewed lued libben in londe, be he never in hyrt so haver of honde, So lerede us biledes. ȝef ich on molde mote wiþ a mai, y shal falle hem byfore & lurnen huere lay, ant rewen alle huere redes. ah bote y be þe furme day on folde hem byfore, ne shaly nout so skere scapen of huere score; so grimly he on me gredes, þat y ne mot me lede þer wiþ mi lawe; on alle maner oþes [þat] heo me wulleþ awe, heore boc ase on bredes. heo wendeþ bokes on brad, ant makeþ men a moneþ a mad; of scaþe y wol me skere, ant fleo from my fere; ne rohte hem whet yt were, boten heo hit had.[10]

Iesu, for þi muchele miht þou ȝef us of þi grace, þat we mowe dai & nyht þenken o þi face. in myn herte hit doþ me god, when y þenke on iesu blod, þat ran doun bi ys syde, from is herte doun to is fot; for ous he spradde is herte blod, his wondes were so wyde.

Lenten ys come wiþ love to toune, wiþ blosmen & wiþ briddes roune, þat al þis blisse bryngeþ; dayes eȝes in þis dales, notes suete of nyhtegales, uch foul song singeþ. þe þrestelcoc him þreteþ oo; away is huere wynter woo, when woderove springeþ. þis foules singeþ ferly fele, ant wlyteþ on huere wynter wele, þat al þe wode ryngeþ.

Trowe ȝe, sores, and God sent an angell And commawndyd ȝow ȝowr chyld to slayn, Be ȝowr trowthe ys ther ony of ȝow That eyther wold groche or stryve ther-ageyn? How thyngke ȝe now, sorys, ther-by? I trow ther be iii or iiii or moo. And thys women that wepe so sorowfully Whan that hyr chyldryn dey them froo, As nater woll and kynd,— Yt ys but folly, I may well awooe, To groche a-ȝens God or to greve ȝow, For ȝe schall never se hym myschevyd, wyll I know, Be lond nor watyr, have thys in mynd.