PON that famous river's farther shore
There stood a snowy Swan, of heavenly hue
And gentle kind, as ever fowl afore;
A fairer one in all the goodly crew
Of white Strymonian brood might no man view;
There he most sweetly sang the prophecy
Of his own death in doleful elegy.
At last, when all his mourning melody
He ended had, that both the shores resounded, Feeling the fit that him forewarned to die,
With lofty flight above the earth he bounded, And out of sight to highest heaven mounted, Where now he is become an heavenly sign. There now the joy is his; here sorrow mine.
E making speedy way through 'spersèd air,
And through the world of waters, wide and deep,
To Morpheus' house doth hastily repair.
Amid the bowels of the earth full steep,
And low, where dawning day doth never peep,
His dwelling is; there Thetis his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steep
In silver dew his ever-drooping head,
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spread.
Whose double gates he findeth locked fast,
The one, fair framed of burnished ivory,
The other, all with silver overcast ;
And wakeful dogs before them far do lie,
Watching to banish Care, their enemy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleep.
By them the sprite doth pass in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drownèd deep
In drowsy fits he finds; of nothing he takes keep.
And more to lull him in his slumber soft,
A trickling stream, from high rock tumbling down,
And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixed with a murmuring wind, much like the soune
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon.
No other noise, nor peoples' troublous cries,
As still are wont t'annoy the walled town,
Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies
Wrapped in eternal silence, far from enemies.
IKE as a huntsman, after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguilèd of their prey;
So, after long pursuit and vain essay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle Deer returned the selfsame way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook;
There, she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide,
Till I in hand hers yet half-trembling took,
And with her own goodwill her firmly tied;
Strange thing, meseemed, to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won-with her own will beguiled.
EHOLD, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesses her with his too happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.
Bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory:
Bring home with you the glory of her gain,
With joyance bring her, and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this,
Whom Heaven would heap with bliss!
Make feast, therefore, now all this livelong day;
This day for ever to me holy is;
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,
Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full.
Pour out to all that will,
And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,
That they may sweat and drunken be withal :
Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal,
And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine,
And let the Graces dance unto the rest,
For they can do it best;
The whiles the maidens do their carols sing, To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring!
UCH can they praise the trees so straight and high:
The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall,
The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,
The builder oak, sole king of forests all;
The aspen, good for staves; the cypress, funeral.
The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage; the fir, that weepeth still;
The willow, worn of forlorn paramours;
The yew, obedient to the bender's will;
The birch for shafts; the sallow for the mill;
The myrrh sweet, bleeding of the bitter wound;
The warlike beech; the ash, for nothing ill;
The fruitful olive, and the plantane round;
The carver holm; the maple, seldom inward sound.
Thinkst, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take
our gifts in worth?
FAUNUS. Nay, doubtless; for, 'shall tell thee,
Dame, 't were better give a thing,
A sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a King,
Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad
For gently takes the gentleman that oft the clown will scorn.
COUNTRY GODS. O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill!
This honour done to Ida may it continue still!
MUSES. Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne,
Bring down your gifts of welcome,
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