The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics)

  The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

  5 Hail bounteous May that dost inspire

  Mirth and youth, and warm desire;

  Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

  Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

  Thus we salute thee with our early song,

  10 And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

  On Shakespeare. 1630

  What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,

  The labour of an age in pilèd stones,

  Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

  Under a star-ypointing pyramid?

  5 Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,

  What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

  Thou in our wonder and astonishment

  Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

  For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,

  10 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

  Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book,

  Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,

  Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

  Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

  15 And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,

  That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

  On the University Carrier

  Who sickened in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the plague.

  Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,

  And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt;

  Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one,

  He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.

  5 ’Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,

  Death was half glad when he had got him down;

  For he had any time this ten years full,

  Dodged with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.

  And surely, Death could never have prevailed,

  10 Had not his weekly course of carriage failed;

  But lately finding him so long at home,

  And thinking now his journey’s end was come,

  And that he had ta’en up his latest inn,

  In the kind office of a chamberlain

  15 Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,

  Pulled off his boots, and took away the light:

  If any ask for him, it shall be said,

  Hobson has supped, and ’s newly gone to bed.

  Another on the Same

  Here lieth one who did most truly prove,

  That he could never die while he could move;

  So hung his destiny never to rot

  While he might still jog on and keep his trot;

  5 Made of sphere-metal, never to decay

  Until his revolution was at stay.

  Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime

  ’Gainst old truth) motion numbered out his time;

  And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,

  10 His principles being ceased, he ended straight;

  Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,

  And too much breathing put him out of breath;

  Nor were it contradiction to affirm

  Too long vacation hastened on his term.

  15 Merely to drive the time away he sickened,

  Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened;

  Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched,

  If I may not carry, sure I’ll ne’er be fetched,

  But vow though the cross doctors all stood hearers,

  20 For one carrier put down to make six bearers.

  Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,

  He died for heaviness that his cart went light,

  His leisure told him that his time was come,

  And lack of load, made his life burdensome,

  25 That even to his last breath (there be that say’t)

  As he were pressed to death, he cried more weight;

  But had his doings lasted as they were,

  He had been an immortal carrier.

  Obedient to the moon he spent his date

  30 In course reciprocal, and had his fate

  Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas,

  Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:

  His letters are delivered all and gone,

  Only remains this superscriptïon.

  L’Allegro

  Hence loathèd Melancholy,

  Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,

  In Stygian cave forlorn

  ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,

  5 Find out some uncouth cell,

  Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

  And the night-raven sings;

  There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

  As ragged as thy locks,

  10 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

  But come thou goddess fair and free,

  In Heav’n yclept Euphrosyne,

  And by men, heart-easing Mirth,

  Whom lovely Venus at a birth

  15 With two sister Graces more

  To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;

  Or whether (as some sager sing)

  The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

  Zephyr with Aurora playing,

  20 As he met her once a-Maying,

  There on beds of violets blue,

  And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,

  Filled her with thee a daughter fair,

  So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

  25 Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee

  Jest and youthful Jollity,

  Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,

  Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles,

  Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,

  30 And love to live in dimple sleek;

  Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

  And Laughter holding both his sides.

  Come, and trip it as ye go

  On the light fantastic toe,

  35 And in thy right hand lead with thee,

  The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;

  And if I give thee honour due,

  Mirth, admit me of thy crew

  To live with her, and live with thee,

  40 In unreprovèd pleasures free;

  To hear the lark begin his flight,

  And singing startle the dull night,

  From his watch-tower in the skies,

  Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

  45 Then to come in spite of sorrow,

  And at my window bid good morrow,

  Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,

  Or the twisted eglantine.

  While the cock with lively din,

  50 Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

  And to the stack, or the barn door,

  Stoutly struts his dames before,

  Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn,

  Cheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn,

  55 From the side of some hoar hill,

  Through the high wood echoing shrill.

  Some time walking not unseen

  By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

  Right against the eastern gate,

  60 Where the great sun begins his state,

  Robed in flames, and amber light,

  The clouds in thousand liveries dight.

  While the ploughman near at hand,

  Whistles o’er the furrowed land,

  65 And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

  And the mower whets his scythe,

  And every shepherd tells his tale

  Under the hawthorn in the dale.

  Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures

  70 Whilst the landscape round it measures,

  Russet lawns, and fallows grey,

  Where the nibbling flocks do stray,

  Mountains on whose barren breast

  The labouring clouds do often rest:

/>   75 Meadows trim with daisies pied,

  Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

  Towers, and battlements it sees

  Bosomed high in tufted trees,

  Where perhaps some beauty lies,

  80 The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

  Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,

  From betwixt two agèd oaks,

  Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,

  Are at their savoury dinner set

  85 Of herbs, and other country messes,

  Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;

  And then in haste her bower she leaves,

  With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

  Or if the earlier season lead

  90 To the tanned haycock in the mead,

  Sometimes with secure delight

  The upland hamlets will invite,

  When the merry bells ring round,

  And the jocund rebecks sound

  95 To many a youth, and many a maid,

  Dancing in the chequered shade;

  And young and old come forth to play

  On a sunshine holiday,

  Till the livelong daylight fail,

  100 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

  With stories told of many a feat,

  How faery Mab the junkets ate;

  She was pinched, and pulled she said,

  And he by friar’s lantern led,

  105 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,

  To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

  When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

  His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn

  That ten day-labourers could not end,

  110 Then lies him down the lubber fiend,

  And stretched out all the chimney’s length,

  Basks at the fire his hairy strength;

  And crop-full out of doors he flings,

  Ere the first cock his matin rings.

  115 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

  By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.

  Towered cities please us then,

  And the busy hum of men,

  Where throngs of knights and barons bold,

  120 In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,

  With store of ladies, whose bright eyes

  Rain influence, and judge the prize

  Of wit, or arms, while both contend

  To win her grace, whom all commend.

  125 There let Hymen oft appear

  In saffron robe, with taper clear,

  And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

  With masque and antique pageantry;

  Such sights as youthful poets dream

  130 On summer eves by haunted stream.

  Then to the well-trod stage anon,

  If Jonson’s learned sock be on,

  Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,

  Warble his native wood-notes wild.

  135 And ever against eating cares,

  Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

  Married to immortal verse

  Such as the meeting soul may pierce

  In notes, with many a winding bout

  140 Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out,

  With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,

  The melting voice through mazes running;

  Untwisting all the chains that tie

  The hidden soul of harmony.

  145 That Orpheus’ self may heave his head

  From golden slumber on a bed

  Of heaped Elysian flow’rs, and hear

  Such strains as would have won the ear

  Of Pluto, to have quite set free

  150 His half-regained Eurydice.

  These delights, if thou canst give,

  Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

  Il Penseroso

  Hence vain deluding joys,

  The brood of Folly without father bred,

  How little you bestead,

  Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys;

  5 Dwell in some idle brain,

  And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

  As thick and numberless

  As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,

  Or likest hovering dreams,

  10 The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train.

  But hail thou goddess, sage and holy,

  Hail divinest Melancholy,

  Whose saintly visage is too bright

  To hit the sense of human sight;

  15 And therefore to our weaker view,

  O’erlaid with black staid Wisdom’s hue.

  Black, but such as in esteem,

  Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem,

  Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove

  20 To set her beauty’s praise above

  The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended;

  Yet thou art higher far descended,

  Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore,

  To solitary Saturn bore;

  25 His daughter she (in Saturn’s reign,

  Such mixture was not held a stain).

  Oft in glimmering bow’rs and glades

  He met her, and in secret shades

  Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,

  30 While yet there was no fear of Jove.

  Come pensive nun, devout and pure,

  Sober, steadfast, and demure,

  All in a robe of darkest grain,

  Flowing with majestic train,

  35 And sable stole of cypress lawn,

  Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

  Come, but keep thy wonted state,

  With even step, and musing gait,

  And looks commercing with the skies,

  40 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:

  There held in holy passion still,

  Forget thyself to marble, till

  With a sad leaden downward cast,

  Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

  45 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

  Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

  And hears the Muses in a ring,

  Ay round about Jove’s altar sing.

  And add to these retired Leisure,

  50 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;

  But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,

  Him that yon soars on golden wing,

  Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,

  The Cherub Contemplatïon,

  55 And the mute Silence hist along,

  ’Less Philomel will deign a song,

  In her sweetest, saddest plight,

  Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,

  While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,

  60 Gently o’er th’ accustomed oak;

  Sweet bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,

  Most musical, most melancholy!

  Thee chantress oft the woods among,

  I woo to hear thy even-song;

  65 And missing thee, I walk unseen

  On the dry smooth-shaven green,

  To behold the wand’ring moon,

  Riding near her highest noon,

  Like one that had been led astray

  70 Through the heav’n’s wide pathless way;

  And oft, as if her head she bowed,

  Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

  Oft on a plat of rising ground,

  I hear the far-off curfew sound,

  75 Over some wide-watered shore,

  Swinging slow with sullen roar;

  Or if the air will not permit,

  Some still removèd place will fit,

  Where glowing embers through the room

  80 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

  Far from all resort of mirth,

  Save the cricket on the hearth,

  Or the bellman’s drowsy charm,

  To bless the doors from nightly harm:

  85 Or let my lamp at midnight hour,

  Be seen in some high lonely tow’r,

  Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,

  With
thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere

  The spirit of Plato to unfold

  90 What worlds, or what vast regions hold

  The immortal mind that hath forsook

  Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

  And of those daemons that are found

  In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

  95 Whose power hath a true consent

  With planet, or with element.

  Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

  In sceptred pall come sweeping by,

  Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,

  100 Or the tale of Troy divine.

  Or what (though rare) of later age,

  Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

  But, O sad virgin, that thy power

  Might raise Musaeus from his bower,

  105 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

  Such notes as warbled to the string,

  Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,

  And made Hell grant what love did seek.

  Or call up him that left half-told

  110 The story of Cambuscan bold,

  Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

  And who had Canace to wife,

  That owned the virtuous ring and glass,

  And of the wondrous horse of brass,

  115 On which the Tartar king did ride;

  And if aught else, great bards beside,

  In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

  Of tourneys and of trophies hung;

  Of forests, and enchantments drear,

  120 Where more is meant than meets the ear.

  Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career,

  Till civil-suited Morn appear,

  Not tricked and frounced as she was wont,

  With the Attic boy to hunt,

  125 But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,

  While rocking winds are piping loud,

  Or ushered with a shower still,

  When the gust hath blown his fill,

  Ending on the rustling leaves,

  130 With minute drops from off the eaves.

  And when the sun begins to fling

  His flaring beams, me goddess bring

  To archèd walks of twilight groves,

  And shadows brown that Sylvan loves

  135 Of pine, or monumental oak,

  Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke,

  Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,

  Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.

  There in close covert by some brook,

  140 Where no profaner eye may look,

  Hide me from Day’s garish eye,

  While the bee with honeyed thigh,

  That at her flow’ry work doth sing,

  And the waters murmuring

  145 With such consort as they keep,

  Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep;

  And let some strange mysterious dream,

  Wave at his wings in airy stream,