The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 106

TO THE ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love.

Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft fettered me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this,--but do not so!-- Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

MEMORY From "Britannia's Pastorals"

Marina's gone, and now sit I, As Philomela (on a thorn, Turned out of nature's livery), Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn: Only she sings not, while my sorrows can Breathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan.

So shuts the marigold her leaves At the departure of the sun; So from the honeysuckle sheaves The bee goes when the day is done; So sits the turtle when she is but one, And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds, kind Nature hath Made all the summer as one day: Which once enjoyed, cold winter's wrath As night, they sleeping pa.s.s away.

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be Some that with confidence profess The helpful Art of Memory: But could they teach Forgetfulness, I'd learn; and try what further art could do To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades Men from themselves, to think they be Headless, or other bodies' shades, Hath long and bootless dwelt with me; For could I think she some idea were, I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not: nor would I, For twice as many torments more, As her bereaved company Hath brought to those I felt before, For then no future time might hap to know That she deserved; or I did love her so.

Ye hours, then, but as minutes be!

(Though so I shall be sooner old) Till I those lovely graces see, Which, but in her, can none behold; Then be an age! that we may never try More grief in parting, but grow old and die.

William Browne [1591-1643?]

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 Honor more.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

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 bl.u.s.tering 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 G.o.d's rage; For whether he will let me pa.s.s Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land be twixt us both, Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and s.p.a.ce controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.

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

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year: Chloris is gone; and fate provides To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah! how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure?

Great G.o.d of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of every land?

Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs And every life but mine recall, I only am by Love designed To be the victim for mankind.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

SONG Written At Sea, In The First Dutch War (1665), The Night Before An Engagement

To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old: But let him know it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind?-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pa.s.s our tedious hours away We throw a merry main, Or else at serious...o...b..e play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue?

We were undone when we left you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.