Forthwith her ghost out of her corpse did flit,
And followed her mate like turtle chaste :
To prove that death their hearts cannot divide
Which living were in love so firmly tied.
The Gods, which all things see, this same beheld
And, pitying this pair of lovers true,
Transformed them, there lying on the field,
Into one flower 1 that is both red and blue:
It first grows red, and then to blue doth fade,
Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.
And in the midst thereof a star appears,
As fairly formed as any star in skies,
Resembling Stella in her freshest years,
Forth darting beams of beauty from her eyes;
And all the day it standeth full of deow,2
Which is the tears that from her eyes did flow.
That herb of some Starlight is called by name ;
Of others Penthia, though not so well :
But thou, wherever thou dost find the same,
From this day forth do call it Astrophel:
And when so ever thou it up dost take,
Do pluck it softly, for that shepherd's sake.
ED. SPENSER
1 Probably one of the Boraginea, whose flowers change from red to blue, and have a yellow star in the centre. The Aster Tripolium has also been suggested. See Spenser's Daphnaida :
"Feed ye henceforth on bitter astrofell."
2 Dew.
O DEATH, that hast us of such riches reft,
Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him, whose flower here left
Is but the shadow of his likeness gone?
Scarce like the shadow of that which he was :
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.
But that immortal spirit, which was deckt
With all the dowries of celestial grace,
By sovran choice from th' heavenly quires select,
And lineally derived from angels' race,
O, what is now of it become aread :1
Ay me! can so divine a thing be dead?
Ah no! it is not dead, ne cannot die.
But lives for aye in blissful Paradise;
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie
In bed of lilies wrapt in tender wise;
And compassed all about with roses sweet
And dainty violets from head to feet.
There thousand birds, all of celestial brood,
To him do sweetly carol day and night,
And with strange notes, of him well understood,
Lull him asleep in ángelic delight;
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.
But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine aspécts, appearing plain
And kindling love in him above all measure,
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain:
1 Advise, inform (us).
For whatso goodly form he there doth see
He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free.
NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way
And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still!
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimmed, for ever crossed,—
O who shall say what heroes feel
When all but life and honour's lost?
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watched, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ;
If death that world's bright opening be,
O who would live a slave in this?
1 Mary, Countess of Pembroke, Sidney's sister. But it seems not improbable that Spenser personates her, as the style closely resembles his own.
(FROM "AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE")
MAN is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all light, all influence, all fate :
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good, or ill,
Our fatal1 shadows that walk by us still;
And when the stars are labouring, we believe
It is not that they govern, but they grieve
For stubborn ignorance: all things that are
Made for our general uses are at war;
Even we among ourselves, and from the strife
Our first unlike opinions get a life.
O man, thou image of thy Maker's good,
What canst thou fear when breathed into thy blood
His Spirit is that built thee? What dull sense
Makes thee suspect in need that providence?
Who made the morning, and who placed the light
Guide to thy labours? Who called up the night
And bade her fall upon thee like sweet showers
In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers?
Who gave thee knowledge? Who so trusted thee
To let thee grow so near Himself, the tree?
Must He then be distrusted? shall His frame
Discourse with Him, why thus and thus I am?
He made the angels thine, thy fellows all;
Nay, even thy servants when devotions call:
O canst thou be so stupid, then, so dim,
To seek a saving influence, and lose Him?
1 Fateful.
Can stars protect thee; or can poverty,
Which is the light to Heaven, put out His eye?
He is my star, in Him all truth I find,
All influence, all fate; and when my mind
Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story
Shall outlive all their age and all their glory.
F. BEAUMONT
And Sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep;
Her face was full of woe.
But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair
And passion wise; tears, a delightful thing;
Silence, beyond all speech or wisdom rare.
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
The world can show! leave off in time to grieve. Enough, enough! Your joyful look excels. Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
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