In A College Garden
Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,
What ayles thee soe to pyne?
Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake
When dayes be fyne
And greene thynges twyne:
Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?
Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,
What ayles thee thus to chyde?
My love is fled by garden-gate;
Since Lammas-tyde
I wayte my bryde.
Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?
Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'
Of Time forgotten quite,
That no remembered face may scanne—
Sadde eremyte,
I wayte tonyghte
Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.
O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,
Goe waken Time from sleepe:
Goe whysper in his ear, that soe
His besom sweepe
Me to that heape
Where all my recollections keepe.
Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe
A ghostlye companye
This even, by the dismalle yewe,
Of faces three
That beckoned mee
To land where no repynynges bee?
O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,
Each lost companion!
Why loyter I among the quicke,
When ye are gonne?
Shalle I alone
Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?
Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,
To brayde therein her veste.
My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'
For mouse's neste.
Loe! this is best.
I care not, soe I gayne my reste.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Acushla
I NAMED her twice, I named her thrice,
I named her ten times over;
The wind heard, and the singing bird,
And the bee in the creamy clover.
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
It's little that a man may do,
Whose heart is hot with wooing.
I left the field, the harvest yield —
The grain was ripe to falling —
And ran, and ran, a crazy man,
And I the whole time calling
'Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
When Love is keeping holiday,
What work is worth the doing?'
Her feet were fleet, her pretty feet
Upon the hill and hollow;
She bade me stay, she cried me nay,
And still her eyes said 'Follow!'
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
To capture her was sweet, indeed,
Yet sweeter the pursuing.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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As I Laye A-Dreamynge
After T. I.
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree,
And meseemed unto my syghte
Came rydynge many a knyghte
All cased in armoure bryghte
Cap-a-pie,
As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe,
And meseemed of alle that hoste
Notte a face but was the ghoste
Of a friend that I hadde loste
Long agoe.
As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre,
And laste upon the tracke
Came one I hayled as 'Jacke!'
But he turned mee his backe
With a stare:
As I laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there.
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne,
And meseemed a voyce yt cry'd—
'They shall ryde, and they shall ryde
'Tyll the truce of tyme and tyde
Come agayne!
Alle for Eldorado, yette never maye attayne!'
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente:
'Shalle to-morrowe see them nygher
To a golden walle or spyre?
You have better in yr fyre,
Bee contente.'
As I laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment.
But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge
And rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye:
'Uppe and sette yr lance in reste!
Uppe and followe on the queste!
Leave the issue to be guessed
At the endynge of the waye'—
As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say—
'Whatte and if it alle be feynynge?
There be better thynges than gaynynge,
Rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'—
And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye.
Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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The Doves
The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.
Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.
Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.
What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place ?
What wind, bitter and wild,
Has swept the towering trees
Beneath whose shade a child
Long since gathered heartease ?
Under the golden eaves
The house is still and sad,
As though it grieves and grieves
For many a lass and lad.
The cushat doves complain
All day in the still weather;
Where once were nine or ten
But two keep house together.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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The Knight and Shepherd's Daughter
There was a shepherds daughter
Came tripping on the waye,
And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
Which caused her to staye.
'Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,'
These words pronounced hee;
'O I shall dye this daye,' he sayd,
'If Ive not my wille of thee.'
'The Lord forbid,' the maide replyde,
'That you shold waxe so wode!'
But for all that shee could do or saye,
'He wold not be withstood.'
'Sith you have had your wille of mee,
And put me to open shame,
Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
Tell me what is your name?'
'Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
And some do call me Jille;
But when I come to the kings fair courte,
They calle me Wilfulle Wille.'
He sett his foot into the stirrup,
And awaye then he did ride;
She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
And ranne close by his side.
But when she came to the brode water,
She sett her brest and swamme;
And when she was got out againe,
She tooke to her heels and ranne.
He never was the courteous knighte,
To saye, 'Faire maide, will ye ride?'
'And she was ever too loving a maide
To saye, 'Sir Knighte, abide.''
When she came to the kings faire courte,
She knocked at the ring:
So readye was the king himself
To let this faire maid in.
'Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
Now Christ you save and see;
You have a knighte within your courte
This daye hath robbed mee.'
'What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
Of purple or of pall?
Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
From off thy finger small?'
'He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
Of purple nor of pall;
But he hath gotten my maiden-head,
Which grieves mee worst of all.'
'Now if he be a batchelor,
His bodye Ile give to thee;
But if he be a married man,
High hanged he shall bee.'
He called downe his merrye men all,
By one, by two, by three;
Sir William used to bee the first,
But nowe the last came hee.
He brought her downe fulle fortye pounde,
Tyed up withinne a glove:
'Faire maid, Ile give the same to thee;
Go seeke thee another love.'
'O Ile have none of your gold,' she sayde,
'Nor Ile have none of your fee;
But your faire bodye I must have,
The king hath granted mee.'
Sir William ranne and fetchd her then
Five hundred pound in golde,
Saying, 'Faire maide, take this to thee,
Thy fault will never be tolde.'
'Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,'
These words then answered shee,
'But your own bodye I must have,
The king hath granted mee.'
'Would I had dranke the water cleare,
When I did drink the wine,
Rather than any shepherds brat
Shold bee a ladye of mine!
'Would I had drank the puddle foule,
When I did drink the ale,
Rather that ever a shepherds brat
Shold tell me such a tale!'
'A shepherds brat even as I was,
You mote have let mee bee;
I never had come to the kings faire courte,
To crave any love of thee.'
He sett her on a milk-white steede,
And himself upon a graye;
He hung a bugle about his necke,
And soe they rode awaye.
But when they came unto the place,
Where marriage-rites were done,
She proved herself a dukes daughter,
And he but a squires sonne.
'Now marrye me, or not, Sir Knight,
Your pleasure shall be free:
If you make me ladye of one good towne,
Ile make you lord of three.'
'Ah! cursed bee the gold;' he sayd,
'If thou hadst not been trewe,
I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
And have changed her for a newe.'
And now their hearts being linked fast,
They joyned hand in hande:
Thus he had both purse, and person too,
And all at his commande.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Litany of Lethe
O Lethe, hidden waters never dry,
We, all we weary and heavy-laden, cry,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
--All we have sinnèd, and yet the scars remain.
--And we, all we had sorrow.--And we had pain.
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou that dost flow from Death to Death through Sleep,
Whose waters are the tears of those that weep,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou that dost bring sweet peace to hospitals,
And to the captive openest prison-walls,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou that dost loose the soul from murdered Truth,
And youth from yesterday, and age from youth,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou from lost love remembered sett'st us free
From hopeless love, a lorn eternity;
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou from repentance tak'st the sting, from vice
The memory of a forfeit Paradise;
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou in our grief dost hide from us no less
The anguish of remembered happiness;
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Thou that dost lay alike on all thy spell,
And free the saint from heaven, the wretch from hell,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
Bring, bring soft sleep, and close all eyes for us,
Sleep without dreams, and peace oblivious;
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
We, all we weary and heavy-laden, cry,
Too tired to live, and yet too weak to die,
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!
poem by Arthur Symons
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Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard
As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,
When young men and maides together do goe,
Their masses and matins to heare,
Little Musgrave came to the church door,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.
And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my Lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.
Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
'This ladyes heart I have wonne.'
Quoth she, 'I have loved thee, little Musgrave,
Fulle long and manye a daye:'
'So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.'
'I have a bower at Bucklesford-Bury,
Full daintilye bedight;
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.'
Quoth hee, 'I thanke yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to mee;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.'
All this beheard a litle foot-page,
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, 'Thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my Lord Barnardes manne.
'My Lord Barnard shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.'
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.
'Asleep or awake, thou Lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life;
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford-Bury
Little Musgrave's abed with thy wife.'
'If it be trew, thou litle foote-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford-Bury
I freelye will give to thee.
'But and it be a lye, thou litle foot-page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford-Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.
'Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
And saddle me my good steede;
This night must I to Bucklesford-Bury,
God wott, I had never more neede.'
Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever Lord Barnardes horne it blewe,
'Awaye, Musgrave, awaye.'
'Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
Methinkes I heare the jaye,
Methinkes I heare Lord Barnardes horne;
I would I were awaye.'
'Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold;
For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.
'Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
Thy horse eating corne and haye?
And thou a gaye ladye within thine armes, -
And wouldst thou be away?'
By this Lord Barnard was come to the dore,
And lighted upon a stone;
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
And opened the dores eche one.
He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the sheete;
'How now, how now, thou little Musgrave,
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete?'
'I find her sweete,' quoth the little Musgrave,
'The more is my griefe and paine;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.'
'Arise, arise thou little Musgrave,
And put thy cloathes nowe on;
It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.
'I have two swordes in one scabbarde,
Full deare they cost my purse;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
And I will have the worse.'
The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt Lord Barnard sore;
The next stroke that Lord Barnard strucke,
Little Musgrave never strucke more.
With that bespake the ladye faire,
In bed whereas she laye,
'Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave,
Yet for thee I will praye;
'And wishe well to thy soule will I,
As long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnard,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.'
He cut her pappes from off her brest,
Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.
'Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all,
You never were borne for my goode;
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode?
'For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte
That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest lady
That ever ware womans weede.
'A grave, a grave,' Lord Barnard cryde,
'To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,
For shee comes o' the better kin.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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King Estmere
Hearken to me, gentlemen,
Come and you shall heare;
He tell you of two of the boldest brethren,
That ever born y-were.
The tone of them as Adler yonge,
The tother was Kyng Estmere;
The were as bolde men in their deedes,
As any were, farr and neare.
As they were drinking ale and wine
Within Kyng Estmeres halle:
'When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,
A wyfe to gladd us all?'
Then bespake him Kyng Estmere,
And answered him hatilee
'I know not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with mee.'
'Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kyng here in your stead,
That ladye shold be queene.'
Sayes, 'Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
Throughout merry England,
Where we might find a messenger
Betweene us two to sende.'
Sayes, 'You shall ryde yourselfe, brother,
He beare you companee;
Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
And I feare lest soe shold wee.'
Thus the renisht them to ryde
Of twoe good renisht steedes,
And when they came to Kyng Adlands halle,
Of red golde shone their weedes.
And when the came to Kyng Adlands halle
Before the goodlye yate,
Ther they found good Kyng Adland
Rearing himselfe theratt.
'Nowe Christ thee save, good Kyng Adland,
Nowe Christ thee save and see.'
Sayd, 'You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right hartilye to mee.'
'You have a daughter,' sayd Adler yonge,
'Men call her bright and sheene;
My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
Of Englande to be queene.'
'Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter
Syr Bremor the Kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye;
I feare sheele do youe the same.'
'The Kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
And leevith on Mahound;
And pitye it were that fayre ladye
Shold marrye a heathen hound.'
'But grant to me,' sayes Kyng Estmere,
'For my love I you praye,
That I may see your daughter dere
Before I goe hence awaye.'
'Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,
She shall come downe once for your sake,
To glad my guestes alle.'
Downe then came that mayden fayre,
With ladyes lacede in pall,
And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,
To bring her from bowre to hall,
And eke as manye gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.
The talents of golde were on her head sette,
Hunge low downe to her knee;
And everye rynge on her small finger
Shone of the chrystall free.
Sayes, 'Christ you save, my deare Madame;'
Sayes, 'Christ you save and see;'
Sayes, 'You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.
'And iff you love me, as you saye,
So well and hartilee,
All that ever you are comen about
Soone sped now itt may bee.'
Then bespake her father deare:
'My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the Kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterdaye.
'He wold pull downe my halles and castles,
And reave me of my lyfe:
And ever I feare that paynim kyng,
Iff I reave him of his wyfe.'
'Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of that foule paynim
Wee neede not stande in doubte.
'Plyght me your troth nowe, Kyng Estmere,
By heaven and your right hande,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.'
Then Kyng Estmere he plight his troth
By heaven and his righte hand,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queene of his land.
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,
To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed the might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the Kynge of Spayne,
With kempes many a one:
But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye Kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
Then shee sent after Kyng Estmere,
In all the spede might bee,
That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladye.
One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;
Till he had oretaken Kyng Estmere,
I wis, he never blame.
'Tydinges, tydinges, Kyng Estmere!'
'What tydinges nowe, my boye?'
'O tydinges I can tell you,
That will you sore annoye.
'You had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle out of the towne,
But in did come the Kyng of Spayne
With kempes many a one:
'But in did come the Kyng of Spayne
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye Kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
'That ladye fayre she greetes you well,
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladye.'
Sayes, 'Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whiche way we best may turne and fighte,
To save this fayre ladye.'
'Now hearken to me,' sayes Adler yonge,
'And your reade must rise at me:
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.
'My mother was a westerne woman,
And learned in gramarye,
And when I learned at the schole,
Something shee taught itt me.
'There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,
And iff it were but knowne,
His color which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:
'His color which is browe and blacke,
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sword is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.
'And you shal be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countree;
And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,
To beare your harpe by your knee.
'And you shall be the best harper,
That ever tooke harpe in hande;
And I will be the best singer,
That ever sung in this land.
'Itt shal be written in your forheads,
All and in grammarye,
That we towe are the boldest men
That are in all Christentye.'
And thus they renisht them to ryde,
On towe good renish steedes;
And whan the came to Kyng Adlands hall,
Of redd gold shone their weedes.
And whan the came to Kyng Adlands hall,
Untill the fayre hall yate,
There they found a proud porter,
Rearing himselfe thereatt.
Sayes, 'Christ thee save, thou proud porter;'
Sayes, 'Christ thee save and see.'
'Nowe you be welcome,' sayd the porter,
'Of what land soever ye bee.'
'We been harpers,' sayd Alder yonge,
'Come out of the northe countree;
We been come hither untill this place,
This proud weddinge for to see.'
Sayd, 'And your color were white and redd,
As it is blacke and browne.
Ild saye Kyng Estmere and his brother
Were comen untill this towne.'
Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
Layd itt on the porters arme:
'And ever we will thee, proud porter,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.'
Sore he looked on Kyng Estmere,
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.
Kyng Estmere he light off his steede,
Up att the fayre hall board;
The frothe that came from his brydle bitte
Light on Kyng Bremors beard.
Sayes, 'Stable thy steede, thou proud harper,
Go stable him in the stalle;
Itt doth not beseeme a proud harper
To stable him in a kyngs halle.'
'My ladd he is so lither,' he sayd,
'He will do nought that's meete;
And aye that I cold but find the man,
Were able him to beate.'
'Thou speakst proud words,' sayd the paynim kyng,
'Thou harper here to mee:
There is a man within this halle,
That will beate thy lad and thee.'
'O lett that man come downe,' he sayd,
'A sight of him wold I see;
And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee.'
Downe they came the kemperye man,
And looked him in the eare;
For all the gold, that was under heaven,
He durst not neigh him neare.
'And how nowe, kempe,' sayd the Kyng of Spayne,
'And how that aileth thee?'
He sayes, 'Itt is written in his forhead
All and in gramarye,
That for all the gold that is under heaven,
I dare not neigh him nye.'
Kying Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,
And played thereon so sweete:
Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,
As hee sate at the meate.
'Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
Now stay thy harpe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye.'
He strucke upon his harpe agayne,
And playd both fayre and free;
The ladye was so pleasde thereatt,
She laught loud laughters three.
'Nowe sell me thy harpe,' sayd the Kyng of Spayne,
'Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,
And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,
As there be stryngs thereon.'
'And what wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,
'Iff I did sell it yee?'
'To playe my wiffe and me a Fitt,
When abed together we bee.'
'Now sell me,' quoth hee, 'thy bryde soe gay,
As shee sitts laced in pall,
And as many gold nobles I will give,
As there be rings in the hall.'
'And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
Iff I did sell her yee?
More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
To lye by mee than thee.'
Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
And Adler he did syng,
'O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
Noe harper, but a kyng.
'O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
As playnlye thou mayest see;
And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim,
Who partes thy love and thee.'
The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
And blushte and lookt agayne,
While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
And hath the Sowdan slayne.
Up then rose the kemperye men,
And loud they gan to crye:
'Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
And therefore yee shall dye.'
Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
And swith he drew his brand;
And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,
Right stiffe in stour can stand.
And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
Throughe help of Gramarye,
That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
Or forst them forth to flee.
Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye,
And marryed her to his wiffe,
And brought her home to merrye England
With her to leade his life.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Specula
When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth—
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek’st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista’en the hour.
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Cumnor Hall
The dews of summer nighte did falle,
The moone (sweete regente of the skye)
Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle,
And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
Nowe noughte was hearde beneath the skies,
(The soundes of busye lyfe were stille,)
Save an unhappie ladie's sighes,
That issued from that lonelye pile.
"Leicester," shee cried, "is thys thy love
That thou so oft has sworne to mee
To leave mee in thys lonelye grove,
Immurr'd in shameful privitie?
"No more thou com'st with lover's speede,
Thy once-beloved bryde to see;
But bee shee alive, or bee shee deade,
I feare (sterne earle's) the same to thee.
"Not so the usage I receiv'd,
When happye in my father's halle;
No faithlesse husbande then me griev'd,
No chilling feares did mee appall.
"I rose up with the chearful morne,
No lark more blith, no flow'r more gaye;
And, like the birde that hauntes the thorne,
So merrylie sung the live-long daye.
"If that my beautye is but smalle,
Among court ladies all despis'd;
Why didst thou rend it from that halle,
Where (scorneful earle) it well was priz'de?
"And when you first to mee made suite,
How fayre I was you oft would saye!
And, proude of conquest--pluck'd the fruite,
Then lefte the blossom to decaye.
"Yes, nowe neglected and despis'd,
The rose is pale--the lilly's deade--
But hee that once their charmes so priz'd,
Is sure the cause those charms are fledde.
"For knowe, when sick'ning griefe doth preye
And tender love's repay'd with scorne,
The sweetest beautye will decaye--
What flow'ret can endure the storme?
"At court I'm tolde is beauty's throne,
Where everye lady's passing rare;
That eastern flow'rs, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not soe fayre.
"Then, earle, why didst thou leave the bedds
Where roses and where lillys vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken--when those gaudes are bye?
"'Mong rural beauties I was one,
Among the fields wild flow'rs are faire;
Some countrye swayne might mee have won,
And thoughte my beautie passing rare.
"But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge)
Or tis not beautye lures thy vowes;
Rather ambition's gilded crowne
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
"Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade,
(The injur'd surelye may repyne,)
Why didst thou wed a countrye mayde,
When some fayre princesse might be thyne?
"Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,
And, oh! then leave them to decaye?
Why didst thou win me to thy armes,
Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye?
"The village maidens of the plaine
Salute me lowly as they goe;
Envious they marke my silken trayne,
Nor thinke a countesse can have woe.
"The simple nymphs! they little knowe,
How farre more happy's their estate--
To smile for joye--than sigh for woe--
To be contente--than to be greate.
"Howe farre lesse bleste am I than them?
Dailye to pyne and waste with care!
Like the poore plante, that from its stem
Divided--feeles the chilling ayre.
"Nor (cruel earl!) can I enjoye
The humble charmes of solitude;
Your minions proude my peace destroye,
By sullen frownes or pratings rude.
"Laste nyghte, as sad I chanc'd to straye,
The village deathe-bell smote my eare;
They wink'd asyde, and seem'd to saye,
Countesse, prepare--thy end is neare.
"And nowe, while happye peasantes sleepe,
Here I set lonelye and forlorne;
No one to soothe mee as I weepe,
Save phylomel on yonder thorne.
My spirits flag--my hopes decaye--
Still that dreade deathe-bell smites my eare;
And many a boding seems to saye,
Countess, prepare--thy end is neare."
Thus sore and sad that ladie griev'd,
In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare;
And manye a heartefelte sighe shee heav'd
And let falle manye a bitter teare.
And ere the dawne of daye appear'd,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and dreare,
Full manye a piercing screame was hearde,
And manye a crye of mortal feare.
The death-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aërial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wyng
Arounde the tow'rs of Cumnor Hall.
The mastiffe howl'd at village doore,
The oaks were shatter'd on the greene;
Woe was the houre--for never more
That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.
And in that manor now no more
Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle;
For ever since that drearye houre
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maides, with fearful glance,
Avoid the antient mossgrowne walle;
Nor ever leade the merrye dance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.
Full manye a travellor oft hath sigh'd,
And pensive wepte the countess' falle,
As wand'ring onwards they've espied
The haunted tow'rs of Cumnor Halle.
poem by William Mickle
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To Mary
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
poem by Charles Wolfe
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Beyond Compare for MY Lady Irene
Thou art my love, as thou hast been.
Since first I set my eyes on thee.
The ruler of my heart, my Queen.
You are my liege I serve gladly.
The slightest wish is my command.
I will fulfil it if I can
Though thou dost clearly understand
I am no hero just a man.
A simple man and ordinary.
Whom thou hath bless’ed with thy trust
For this I serve thee willingly
My heart commands me that I must.
With thee I have found happiness
That I did not think could exist.
For thou and I togetherness.
Decreed by fate we can’t resist.
Thou art my love as I am thine.
Consenting partners equally.
A union born of love divine.
We are as we were meant to be.
Our fate was written long ago.
Our love will last eternally
and that is all we need to know.
What fate decrees must come to be.
27/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Love Song
Lovers eminent in love
Ever diversities combine;
The vocal chords of the cushat-dove,
The snake's articulated spine.
Such elective elements
Educate the eye and lip
With one's refreshing innocence,
The other's claim to scholarship.
The serpent's knowledge of the world
Learn, and the dove's more naïve charm;
Whether your ringlets should be curled,
And why he likes his claret warm.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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On a Dead Child
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,
With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!
Though cold and stark and bare,
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer
To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be
Thy father's pride:—ah, he
Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.
To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,
Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;
Startling my fancy fond
With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.
Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it:
But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;
Yet feels to my hand as if
'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.
So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—
Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—
Propping thy wise, sad head,
Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.
So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?
To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?
The vision of which I miss,
Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?
Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us
To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,
Unwilling, alone we embark,
And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Old Robin of Portingale
Let the mayors daughter of Lin, God wott,
He chose her to his wife,
And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.
They scarce were in their wee-bed laid,
And scarce was hee asleepe,
But upp shee rose, and forth shee goes,
To the steward, and gan to weepe.
'Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles?
Or be you not within?
Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles,
Arise and let me inn.'
'O, I am waking, sweete,' he said,
'Sweete ladye, what is your will?'
'I have unbethought me of a wile,
How my wed-lord weel spill.
'Twenty-four good knights,' shee sayes,
'That dwell about this towne,
Even twenty-four of my next cozens,
Will helpe to dinge him downe.
All that beheard his litle foote-page,
As he watered his masters steed,
And for his masters sad perille
His verry heart did bleed.
He mourned, sighed, and wept full sore;
I sweare by the holy roode,
The teares he for his master wept
Were blent water and bloude.
And that beheard his deare master
As he stood at his garden pale:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, my litle footpage,
What causes thee to wail?
'Hath any one done to thee wronge,
Any of thy fellowes here?
Or is any of thy good friends dead,
That thou shedst manye a teare?
'Or, if it be my head bookes-man,
Aggrieved he shal bee,
For no man here within my howse,
Shall doe wrong unto thee.'
'O, it is not your head bookes-man,
Nor none of his degree,
But on to-morrow, ere it be noone,
All deemed to die are yee.
'And of that bethank your head steward,
And thank your gay ladye.'
'If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thoust bee.'
'If it be not true, my dear master,
No good death let me die.'
'If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,
A dead corse shalt thou lie.
'O call now downe my faire ladye,
O call her downe to mee;
And tell my ladye gay how sicke,
And like to die I bee.'
Downe then came his ladye faire,
All clad in purple and pall,
The rings that were on her fingers
Cast light throughout the hall.
'What is your will, my owne wed-lord?
What is your will with mee?'
'O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,
And like to die I bee.'
'And thou be sicke, my owne wed-lord,
Soe sore it grieveth me,
But my five maydens and myselfe
Will 'watch thy' bedde for thee,
'And at the waking of your first sleepe,
We will a hott drinke make;
And at the waking of your 'next' sleepe
Your sorrowes we will slake.'
He put a silk cote on his backe,
And mail of many a fold;
And hee putt a steele cap on his head,
Was gilt with good red gold;
He layd a bright browne sword by his side,
And another att his feete;
'And twentye good knights he placed at hand,
To watch him in his sleepe.'
And about the middle time of the night,
Came twentye-four traitours inn:
Sir Giles he was the foremost man,
The leader of that ginn.
Old Robin with his bright browne sword
Sir Gyles head soon did winn;
And scant of all those twenty-four
Went out one quick agenn.
None save only a litle foot-page,
Crept forth at a window of stone,
And he had two armes when he came in,
And he went back with one.
Upp then came that ladye gaye
With torches burning bright;
She thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke,
Butt she found her owne wedd-knight.
The first thinge that she stumbled on,
It was Sir Gyles his foote:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, and woe is mee,
Here lyes my sweete hart-roote!'
The next thinge that she stumbled on,
It was Sir Gyles his heade:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, and woe is mee,
Heere lyes my true love deade!'
He cutt the papers beside her brest,
And didd her body spille;
He cutt the eares beside her heade,
And bade her love her fille.
He called then up his litle foot page,
And made him there his heyre;
And sayd, 'Henceforth my worldlye goodes
And countrye I forsweare.'
He shope the crosse on his right shoulder,
Of the white 'clothe' and the redde,
And went him into the Holy Land,
Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Barbara Allen's Cruelty
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of May,
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye downe, laye downe the corps, she sayd,
That I may look upon him.
With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
That all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to morrowe.
Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was live and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
poem by Thomas Percy
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King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid
I read that once in Affrica
A princely wight did raine,
Who had to name Cophetua,
As poets they did faine.
From natures lawes he did decline,
For sure he was not of my minde,
He cared not for women-kind,
But did them all disdaine.
But marke what hapned on a day;
As he out of his window lay,
He saw a beggar all in gray,
The which did cause his paine.
The blinded boy that shootes so trim
From heaven downe did hie,
He drew a dart and shot at him,
In place where he did lye:
Which soone did pierse him to the quicke,
And when he felt the arrow pricke,
Which in his tender heart did sticke,
He looketh as he would dye.
'What suden chance is this,' quoth he,
'That I to love must subject be,
Which never thereto would agree,
But still did it defie?'
Then from the window he did come,
And laid him on his bed;
A thousand heapes of care did runne
Without his troubled head.
For now he meanes to crave her love,
And now he seekes which way to proove
How he his fancie might remoove,
And not this beggar wed.
But Cupid had him so in snare,
That this poor beggar must prepare
A salve to cure him of his care,
Or els he would be dead.
And as he musing thus did lye,
He thought for to devise
How he might have her companye,
That so did 'maze his eyes.
'In thee,' quoth he, 'doth rest my life;
For surely thou shalt be my wife,
Or else this hand with bloody knife,
The Gods shall sure suffice.'
Then from his bed he soon arose,
And to his pallace gate he goes;
Full little then this begger knowes
When she the king espies.
'The gods preserve your majesty,'
The beggers all gan cry;
'Vouchsafe to give your charity,
Our childrens food to buy.'
The king to them his purse did cast,
And they to part it made great haste;
This silly woman was the last
That after them did hye.
The king he cal'd her back againe,
And unto her he gave his chaine;
And said, 'With us you shal remaine
Till such time as we dye.
'For thou,' quoth he, 'shalt be my wife,
And honoured for my queene;
With thee I meane to lead my life,
As shortly shall be seene:
Our wedding shall appointed be,
And every thing in its degree;
Come on,' quoth he, 'and follow me,
Thou shalt go shift thee cleane.
What is thy name, faire maid?' quoth he.
'Penelophon, O King,' quoth she;
With that she made a lowe courtsey;
A trim one as I weene.
Thus hand in hand along they walke
Unto the king's pallace:
The king with courteous, comly talke
This begger doth embrace.
The begger blusheth scarlet red,
And straight againe as pale as lead,
But not a word at all she said,
She was in such amaze.
As last she spake with trembling voyce,
And said, 'O King, I doe rejoyce
That you wil take me for your choyce,
And my degree so base.'
And when the wedding day was come,
The king commanded straight
The noblemen, both all and some,
Upon the queene to wait.
And she behaved herself that day
As if she had never walkt the way;
She had forgot her gowne of gray,
Which she did weare of late.
The proverbe old is come to passe,
The priest, when he begins his masse,
Forgets that ever clerke he was;
He knoweth not his estate.
Here you may read Cophetua,
Through long time fancie-fed,
Compelled by the blinded boy
The begger for to wed:
He that did lovers lookes disdaine,
To do the same was glad and faine,
Or else he would himselfe have slaine,
In storie, as we read.
Disdaine no whit, O lady deere,
But pitty now thy servant heere,
Least that it hap to thee this yeare,
As to that king it did.
And thus they led a quiet life
During their princely raine,
And in a tombe were buried both,
As writers sheweth plaine.
The lords they tooke it grievously,
The ladies tooke it heavily,
The commons cryed pitiously,
Their death to them was paine.
Their fame did sound so passingly,
That it did pierce the starry sky,
And throughout all the world did flye
To every princes realme.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Sweet Lullaby
Come, little babe; come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
Born, as I doubt, to all our dole
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think'st and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan,
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone.
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
And knowest not yet what thou dost ail.
Come, little wretch - ah, silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destines implore,
'Twas I, I say, against my will;
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? Oh, thy sweet face,
Would God himself he might thee see;
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me,
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend;
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield;
I know him of a noble mind.
Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town thou shalt him find.
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid;
His sugared words hath me betrayed.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan,
Thy father is no rascal lad,
A noble youth of blood and bone;
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock asleep,
Sing lullaby, and be thou still;
I that can do nought else but weep
Will sit by thee and wail my fill.
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Sonnet 3
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Unwelcome visitor
Begone sad ghost why dost thou bother me.
I knew thee not whilst living thou drew breath.
Nor do I wish to know thee after death.
Why dost thou visit me so frequently?
What is that thou hopest to gain from me?
Unlike the other dead who slumber peacefully.
Under the stone which they must lie beneath.
What wantest thou with me; I know thee not,
nor do I want thy ghostly company.
If once I knew thee I have forgot
Begone sad ghost thou dost not frighten me.
Go now there is no welcome here for thee.
9-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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