And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mix'd with a murmuring wind, much like the sound
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon.
Again, the distant merry sound of the nymphs dancing to the shepherd's pipe, would attract one of a common ear, or very moderate curiosity.
Unto this place, when as the elfin knight,
Approach'd, him seemed that the merry sound,
Of a shrill pipe he playing heard on hight,
And many feet fast thumping th' hollow ground,
That through the woods their echo did rebound,
He nigher drew, to weet what might it be;
There he a troop of ladies dancing found,
Full merrily and making gladful glee,
And in the midst a shepherd piping he did see.
The sight he enjoys is a recompense for his pains, and breathless silence.
He durst not enter into the open green,
For dread of them unawares to be descried
For breaking of their dance, if he were seen;
But in the covert of the wood did bide,
Beholding all, yet of them unespied.
There he did see, that pleased much his sight,
That even he himself his eyes envied :
A hundred laughing maidens, lily white,
All ranged in a ring and dancing in delight,
The queen of this occasion is worthy of the honors bestowed upon her.
Such was the beauty of this goodly band,
Whose sundry parts were here too long to tell :
But she that in the midst of them did stand
Seem'd all the rest in beauty to excel,
Crown'd with a rosy garland, that right well
Did her become. And ever as the crew
About her danced, sweet flowers that far did smell,
And fragrant odors they upon her threw;
But most of all those there did her with gifts endue.
And so thinks her lover, the poet :
So far as doth the daughter of the day,
All other lesser lights in light excel,
So far doth she in beautiful array,
Above all other lasses bear the bell;
Nor less in virtue that beseems her well,
Doth she exceed the rest of all her race;
For which the graces that here wont to dwell
Have for more honor brought her to this place,
And graced her so much to be another grace.
Another Grace she well deserves to be,
In whom so many graces gathered are,
Excelling much the mean of her degree;
Divine resemblance, beauty sovereign rare,
For chastity, that spite nor blemish dare ;
All which she with such courtesy doth grace,
That all her peers cannot with her compare,
But quite are dimmed when she is in place,
She made me often pipe, and now to pipe apace.
This beautiful specimen, which is taken from the "Muiopotomus," for delicacy of fancy and felicity of description, is worthy of a place in the "gallery of pictures from Spenser."
The woods, the rivers, and the meadows green,
With his air-cutting wings he measur'd wide;
Nor did he leave the mountains bare unseen,
Nor the rank grass fen's delights untri'd:
But none of these, however sweet they been,
Might please his fancy, nor him cause abide.
His choiceful sense with every change doth flit ;
No common things may please a wavering wit.
To the gay gardens his unstay'd desire
Him wholly carried, to refresh his sprites,
There lavish Nature, in her best attire,
Pours forth sweet odors and alluring sights;
And art with her contending, doth aspire,
T'excel the natural with made delights;
And all that fair or pleasant may be found,
In riotous excess doth there abound.
There he arriving, round about doth fly
From bed to bed, from one to other border,
And takes survey, with curious busy eye,
Of every flower and herb there set in order;
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,
Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,
Nor with his feet their silken leaves deface,
But pastures on the pleasures of each place.
And ever more, with most variety,
And change of sweetness (for all change is sweet)
He casts his glutton sense to satisfy;
Now, sucking of the sap of herb most meet,
Or of dew which yet on them does lie,
Now in the same bathing his tender feet; And then he percheth on some bank thereby, To weather him, and his moist wings to dry.
Mark, when she smiles with amiable cheer,
And tell me, whereto can ye liken it ?
When on each eye-lid sweetly do appear
An hundred graces, as in shade, to sit.
Likest it seemeth, in my simple wit,
Unto the fair sunshine in summer's day,,
That, when a dreadful storm away is flit
Through the broad world doth spread his goodly ray;
At sight whereof, each bird that sits on spray,
And every beast that to his den was fled,
Comes forth afresh out of their late dismay,
And to the light lift up their drooping head.
So my storm-beaten heart likewise is cheered
With that sunshine, when cloudy looks are cleared.
[FROM THE Ruins of time.”—Ellis.]
O vain world's glory and unsteadfast state,
Of all that lives on face of sinful earth!
Which from their first, until their utmost date,
Taste no one hour of happiness or mirth:
Why then doth flesh, a bubble-glass of breath,
Hunt after honor and advancement vain,
And rear a trophy for devouring Death,
With so great labor, and long-lasting pain,
As if his days forever should remain?
Since all that in this world, is great or gay,
Doth as a vapor vanish and decay.
Look back, who list, unto the former ages,
And call to count what is of them become;
Where be those learned wits and antique sages,
Which of all wisdom knew the perfect sum?
Where those great warriors which did overcome The world with conquest of their might and main. And made one meare of the earth and of their reign?
High towers, fair temples, goodly theatres,
Strong walls, rich porches, princely palaces,
Large streets, brave houses, sacred sepulchres,
Sure gates, sweet gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillars and fine imageries:
All those, O pity! now are turn'd to dust,
And overgrown with black oblivion's rust.
Where my high steeples whilom used to stand,
On which the lonely falcon, wont to tower,
There now is but an heap of lime and sand,
For the screech-owl to build her baleful bower; And, where the nightingale, wont forth to pour Her restless plaints, to comfort wakeful lovers, There now haunt yelling mews and whining plovers.
O trustless state of miserable men!
That build your bliss on hope of earthly thing,
And vainly think yourselves half happy, then,
When painted faces, with smooth flattering
Do fawn on you, and your wide praises sing!
And when the courting masker routeth low,
Him true in heart and trusty to you trow!
All is but feigned, and with oker dy'd,
That every shower will wash and wipe away; All things do change that under heaven abide, And after death all friendship doth decay : Therefore, whatever men bear'st worldly sway,
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