« 이전계속 »
All to one female idol bend,
All this with indignation spoke,
So the tall stag, upon the brink
DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.
uu limits to his vaster mind;
Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
To bim the fairest nymphs do shew
thu Galatea seem:
ALA deri! det kind Nature thus
Joy salutes me when I set
If sweet Amoret complains,
All that of myself is mine,
If the soul had free election
ON A BREDE OP DIVERS COLOURS. Twee iwenty wlender virgin-tugere twine The cunoue wely, where all this tuncies shine. Au mature them, so they thin shade have wrought, Bolt matbex bandw, and vamous as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He woon the female to his painted bodi Nu, not the bow, which no adorns the skies, Dupontoum in, or boasta so many dyes,
But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry;
Which, though not so fierce a flames
Is longer like to be the same.
Then smile on me, and I will prove
Wonder is shorter liv'd than love.
TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.
Sees not my love how time resumes
The glory which he lent these flow'rs;
Though none should taste of their perfumes, But as hard 'tis to destroy
Yet must they live but some few hours.
Time what we forbear devours !
Had Helen, or the Egyptian Queen,
Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.
Should some malignant planet bring
A barren drought or ceaseless show'r
Upon the autumn or the spring,
And spare us neither fruit nor flow'r,
Winter would not stay an hour.
Could the resolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion,
Nor would I indulge my passion,
L'ALLEGRO. Hence loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights
unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous And the night-raven sings;
[wings, There under ebon shades and low brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimerian desart ever dwell.
From the side of some hoar hill,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove Ere the first cock his matin rings.
To set her beauty's praise above Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
The sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended: By whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep.
Yet thou art higher far descended. Towered cities please us then,
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore And the busy hum of men,
To solitary Saturn bore; Where throngs of knights and barons bold
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
Such mixture was not held a stain) With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades Rain influence, and judge the prize
He met her, and in secret shades Of wit, or arms, while both contend
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, To win her grace, whom all commend.
While yet there was no fear of Jove. There let Hymen oft appear
Come pensive nun, devout and pure, In saffron robe, with taper clear,
Sober, stedfast, and demure, And Pomp, and Feast, and Revelry,
All in a robe of darkest grain, With Mask and antique Pageantry,
Following with majestic #rain, Such sights as youthful poets dream,
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn, On summer eves by haunted stream.
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Then to the well-trod stage anon,
Come, but keep thy wonted state, If Jonson's learned sock be on,
With even step, and musing gait, Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child,
And looks commercing with the skies, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: And ever against eating cares,
There held in holy passion still, Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Forget thyself to marble, till Married to immortal verse,
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
And hears the Muses in a ring, The melting voice through mazes running,
Ay round about Jove's altar sing : Untwisting all the chains, that tie
And add to these retired Leisure, The hidden soul of harmony;
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; That Orpheus' self may heave his head
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, From golder slumber on a bed
Him that yon soars on golden wing, Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, Such strains as would have won the ear
The cherub Contemplation; Of Pluto, to have quite set free
And the mute Silence hist along, His half regain d Eurydice.
'Less Philomel will deign a song, These delights, if thou canst give,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy! Hence vain deluding Joys,
Thee chauntress oft the woods among The brood of Folly without father bred,
I woo to hear thy evening-song; How little you bested,
And missing thee, I walk unseen Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ?
On the dry smooth-shaven green, Dwell in some idle brain,
To behold the wand'ring moon And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
Riding near her highest noon, As thick and numberless
Like one that had been led astray As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Through the Heav'ns wide pathless way; Or likest hovering dreams,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. Stooping through a fleecy cloud. But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy,
Oft on a plat of rising ground, Hail divinest Melancholy,
I hear the far-off curfew sound, Whose saintly visage is too bright
Over some wide-water'd shore, To hit the sense of human sight,
Swinging slow with sullen roar; And therefore to our weaker view
Or if the air will not permit, O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ;
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Hide me from Day's garish eye, Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
While the bee with honied thigh, Far from all resort of mirth,
That at her flowery work doth sing, Save the cricket on the hearth,
And the waters murmuring, Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
With such concert as they keep, To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep: Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
And let some strange mysterious dream Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,
Wave at his wings in airy stream Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
Of lively portraiture display'd, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
Softly on my eye-lids laid. The spirit of Plato to unfold
And as I wake, sweet music breathe What worlds, or what vast regions hold
Above, about, or underneath, The immortal mind that hath forsook
Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Her mansion in this fleshly nook :
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood, And of those demons that are found
But let my due feet never fail In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
To walk the studious cloysters pale, Whose power hath a true consent
And love the high embowed roof, With planet, or with element.
With antic pillars massy proof, Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
And storied windows richly dight, In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Casting a dim religious light. Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
There let the pealing organ blow Or the tale of Troy divine,
To the full voic'd quire below Or what (though rare) of later age
In service high, and anthems clear, Ennobled hath the buskin’d stage.
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, But, Osad Virgin, that thy power
Dissolve me into ecstasies, Might raise Musæus from his bower,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
And may at last my weary age Such notes, as warbled to the string,
Find out the peaceful hermitage, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
The hairy gown and mossy cell, And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Where I may sit and rightly spell Or call up him that left half told,
Of every star that Heav'n doth shew, The story of Cambuscan bold,
And every herb that sips the dew; Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
Till old Experience do attain And who had Canace to wife,
To something like prophetic strain. That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sear, Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Till civil-suited Morn appear,
And with forc'd fingers rude Not trick'd and flounced as she was wont
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. With the Attic boy to hunt,
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
Compels me to disturb your season due: While rocking winds are piping loud,
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Or usher'd with a shower still,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: When the gust hath blown his fill,
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Ending on the rustling leaves,
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime. With minute drops from off the eaves.
He must not float upon his wat’ry bier And when the sun begins to fling
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
Without the mead of some melodious tear. To arched walks of twilight groves,
Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Of pine, or monumental oak,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
So may some gentle Muse Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, There in close covert by some brook,
And as he passes turn, Where no profaner eye may look,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud: