Minor Poems of Michael Drayton Part 26

SONGS FROM THE 'SHEPHERD'S GARLAND'

[From the Edition of 1593]

The G.o.ds delight, the heauens hie spectacle, Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.

Fortunes fay'rst mistresse, vertues surest guide, Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.

Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence, Chast.i.ties choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.

Conceipts sole Riches, thoughts only treasure, Desires true hope, Ioyes sweetest pleasure.

Mercies due merite, valeurs iust reward, Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde. 10

Yea she alone, next that eternall he, The expresse Image of eternitie.

_From Eclogue ij_

Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue) The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse, If this be wrought me my light to bereaue, By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips Or vgly _Saturne_ from his combust sent, This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.

Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes, Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light, Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise, Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring night, 10 G.o.ddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice, Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?

Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?

May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?

Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?

Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind, When loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.

Yet needes the earth must droope with visage sad, When siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes, 20 The Cheerful _Welkin_, once in sables clad, Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.

And yet for all to make amends for this, The clouds sheed teares, and weepen at my misse.

_From Eclogue iij_

O thou fayre siluer Thames: O cleerest chrystall flood, _Beta_ alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood, The Queene of Virgins onely she: And thou the Queene of floods shalt be: Let all thy Nymphes be ioyfull then to see this happy day, Thy _Beta_ now alone shalbe the subiect of my laye.

With daintie and delightsome straines of sweetest virelayes: Come louely shepheards sit we down and chant our _Betas_ prayse: And let vs sing so rare a verse, Our _Betas_ prayses to rehea.r.s.e, 10 That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing, And riuers backward bend their course, and flow vnto the spring.

Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke, And place them duely one by one, vpon thy stately banck, Then set together all agood, Recording to the siluer flood, And craue the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay, The Osel and the Throstlec.o.c.ke, chiefe musicke of our maye.

O! see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands, And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Oliues in their hands. 20 How meryly the Muses sing, That all the flowry Medowes ring, And _Beta_ sits vpon the banck, in purple and in pall, And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.

Trim vp her Golden tresses with _Apollos_ sacred tree, O happy sight vnto all those that loue and honor thee, The Blessed Angels haue prepar'd, A glorious Crowne for thy reward, Not such a golden Crowne as haughty _Caesar_ weares, But such a glittering starry Crowne as _Ariadne_ beares. 30

Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine, And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine: Bedeck our _Beta_ all with Lillies, And the dayntie Daffadillies, With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice, With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloues of Paradice.

O thou fayre torch of heauen, the days most dearest light, And thou bright shyning _Cinthya_, the glory of the night: You starres the eyes of heauen, And thou the glyding leuen, 40 And thou O gorgeous _Iris_ with all strange Colours dyd, When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

See how the day stands still, admiring of her face, And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy _Beta_ to imbrace, The Syrens sing sweete layes, The Trytons sound her prayse, Goe pa.s.se on Thames and hie thee fast vnto the Ocean sea, And let thy billowes there proclaime thy _Betas_ holy-day.

And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Oliue tree, With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserued be, 50 Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours, And mirtle for Loues Paramours: That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preseru'd by peace, And let the mournful Cipres die, now stormes and tempest cease.

Wee'l straw the sh.o.r.e with pearle where _Beta_ walks alone, And we wil paue her princely Bower with richest Indian stone, Perfume the ayre and make it sweete, For such a G.o.ddesse it is meete, For if her eyes for purity contend with t.i.tans light, No maruaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight. 60

Sound out your trumpets then, from _London's_ stately towres, To beate the stormie windes a back and calme the raging showres, Set too the Cornet and the flute, The Orpharyon and the Lute, And tune the Taber and the Pipe, to the sweet violons, And moue the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.

_Beta_ long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice, And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize, Thy shepheards watch by day and night, Thy Mayds attend the holy light, 70 And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east vnto the west, And thou vnder thy feet mayst tread, that foule seuen-headed beast.

_From Eclogue iv_

_Melpomine_ put on thy mourning Gaberdine, And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base, And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face, with weeping verse, attend his hea.r.s.e, Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell, Warble forth your wamenting harmony, And at his drery fatall obsequie, with Cypres bowes, 10 maske your fayre Browes, And beat your b.r.e.a.s.t.s to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen, And on thy death this dolefull song we sing, Sweet Child of _Pan_, and the _Castalian_ spring, vnto our endless mone, from vs why art thou gone, To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

O whylome thou thy la.s.ses dearest loue, When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee, 20 Immortal mirror of all Poesie: the Muses treasure, the Graces pleasure, Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.

Our mirth is now depriu'd of all her glory, Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd.

Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound, our melodie is mar'd and we of ioyes debard, O wicked world so mutable and transitory. 30

O dismall day, bereauer of delight, O stormy winter, sourse of all our sorrow, O most vntimely and eclipsed morrow, to rob us quite, of all delight, Darkening that starre which euer shone so bright.

Oh _Elphin_, _Elphin_, Though thou hence be gone, In spight of death yet shalt thou liue for aye, Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye: and still shalt blaze 40 thy lasting prayse: Whose losse poore shepherds euer shall bemone.

Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his graue, With damaske Roses and the hyacynt: Come with sweete Williams, Marioram and Mynt, with precious Balmes, with hymnes and psalmes, This funerall deserues no lesse at all to haue.

But see where _Elphin_ sits in fayre Elizia, Feeding his flocke on yonder heauenly playne, 50 Come and behold, you louely shepheards swayne, piping his fill on yonder hill, Tasting sweete _Nectar_, and _Ambrosia_.

_From Eclogue vij_

_Borrill._

Oh spightfull wayward wretched loue, Woe to _Venus_ which did nurse thee, Heauens and earth thy plagues doe proue, G.o.ds and men haue cause to curse thee.

Thoughts griefe, hearts woe, Hopes paine, bodies languish, Enuies rage, sleepes foe, Fancies fraud, soules anguish, Desires dread, mindes madnes, Secrets bewrayer, natures error, 10 Sights deceit, sullens sadnes, Speeches expence, Cupids terror, Malcontents melancholly, Liues slaughter, deaths nurse, Cares slaue, dotard's folly, Fortunes bayte, world's curse, Lookes theft, eyes blindnes, Selfes will, tongues treason, Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes, Furies frensie, follies reason: 20 With cursing thee as I began, Neither G.o.d, neither man, Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.

_Batte._

Loue is the heauens fayre aspect, loue is the glorie of the earth, Loue only doth our liues direct, loue is our guyder from our birth,

Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie, loue taught mine eyes the way to loue, Loue raysed my conceit so hie, 30 loue framd my hand his arte to proue.