SIRENA

Strow me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips and Kingcups and loved Lilies :
The pretty Paunce 1

And the Chevisaunce 2

Shall match with the fair Flower-delice.3

LXVI

Spenser.

SIRENA

NEAR to the silver Trent

SIRENA dwelleth ;

She to whom Nature lent
All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
And the neat Graces

Have for their greater state
Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem

Wherewith to crown her,

As it belonged to them

Most to renown her.
On thy bank,

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Henceforth of all the rest

Be thou the River Which, as the daintiest, Puts them down ever. For as my precious one O'er thee doth travel, She to pearl paragon Turneth thy gravel.

On thy bank..

Our mournful Philomel,

That rarest tuner, Henceforth in April

Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
Over and over:

For when my Love too long
Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffer'd wrong,
The Morning weepeth.
On thy bank.

Oft have I seen the Sun,

To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon

To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,

Every hill near her,
With his flames from above

Striving to cheer her:

SIRENA

And when she from his sight
Hath herself turned,

He, as it had been night,
In clouds hath mourned.
On thy bank

The verdant meads are seen,

When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Straight to renew them;
And every little grass
Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth :

Nor flower is so sweet

In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet

Leaveth some tincture.
On thy bank..

The fishes in the flood,

When she doth angle, For the hook strive a-good Them to entangle ;

And leaping on the land,

From the clear water, Their scales upon the sand Lavishly scatter;

-Therewith to pave the mould

Whereon she passes,

So herself to behold

As in her glasses.

On thy bank.

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When she looks out by night,

The stars stand gazing, Like comets to our sight Fearfully blazing;

As wond'ring at her eyes

With their much brightness, Which so amaze the skies,

Dimming their lightness. The raging tempests are calm When she speaketh,

Such most delightsome balm

From her lips breaketh.

On thy bank.

Should you compare her. Angels her eye-lids keep,

All hearts surprising ;

Which look whilst she doth sleep
Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind

Knoweth true measure,

And her unmatched mind

Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank.

Fair Dove and Derwent clear,

Boast ye your beauties,

To Trent your mistress here

Yet

pay your duties :

SIRENA

My Love was higher born
Tow'rds the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn
And the Peak mountains;

Nor would she none should dream

Where she abideth,

Humble as is the stream

Which by her slideth.
On thy bank

Yet my poor rustic Muse
Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use
Though her true lover:
Many a long winter's night
Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,
Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
Never can number.

On thy bank,

In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

M. Drayton.

63