And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne carèd even for play. Was nought around but images of rest : Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,1 From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played And hurlèd everywhere their waters sheen ; That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep : Yet all these sounds yblent inclinèd all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale, above, 1 Cast. So used by Spenser. Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood; And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out, below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsihead it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. J. THOMSON 84.-ROSALYNDE'S MADRIGAL LOVE in my bosom like a bee Now with his wings he plays with me, Within mine eyes he makes his nest, And if I sleep, then percheth he And makes his pillow of my knee Strike I my lute he tunes the string, He lends me every lovely thing; Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence ; And bind you when you want to play, I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, What if I beat the wanton boy He will repay me with annoy Then sit thou safely on my knee, Spare not, but play thee! T. LODGE 85.-CYNTHIA (FROM THE LOST POEM "CYNTHIA," OF WHICH A FRAGMENT HAS BEEN LATELY RECOVERED) SHE is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair. Sorrow draws weakly, where love draws not too : Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear. To feed on hills or dales, where likes them best, Of what the summer or the spring-time yields; For love and time hath given thee leave to rest. Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay My pipe, which Love's own hand gave my desire Despair hath often threatened to the fire, As vain to keep now all the rest are gone. Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on; Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes: Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone Against the hill which over-weighty lies For feeble arms or wasted strength to move; To God I leave it, Who first gave it me, Of my last comforts the essential mean. 86.-WALY, WALY O WALY, waly up the bank, O waly, waly, down the brae, Where I and my Love were wont to gae! I thocht it was a trustie tree, But first it bowed and syne it brak',- O waly, waly, but love be bonnie And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. 1 Troth. 2 Make light of. |