And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
So am I as the rich, whose blessèd key
Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.1
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special blest,
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope.
W. SHAKSPEARE
(FROM "THE Blessed DamozEL")
THE blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift
For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one, it is ten years of years.
Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me-her hair
Fell all about my face. . . .
Nothing the autumn-fall of leaves,
The whole year sets apace.)
It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
The which is Space begun ;
So high that, looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.
Around her, lovers newly met
'Mid deathless love's acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
Their heart-remembered names;
And the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames.
From the fixed place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds.
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.
"I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said,
"Have I not prayed in Heaven ?—on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?
"We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.
"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead,
"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb :
Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.
"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles :
And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns 1 and citoles.
There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me
Only to live as once on earth
With love, only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now
Together, I and he.”
She gazed and listened, and then said,
Less sad of speech than mild,
"All this is when he comes."
The light thrilled towards her, filled
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.
1 Lyres or harps: Gk. kithara.
But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres :
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
D. G. ROSSETTI
133.-DESCRIPTION OF SPRING,
WHERIN ECHE THING RENEWES, SAUE ONELIE THE LOUER
THE Sootè season that bud and blome furth bringes
With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with fethers new she singes;
The turtle to her make hath tolde her tale:
Somer is come, for euery spray nowe springes;
The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale,
The buck in brake his winter cote he flinges,
The fishes flote with newe repairèd scale,
The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges,
The swift swalow pursueth the flyes smale,
The busy bee her honye now she minges;
Winter is worne that was the flowers bale:
And thus I see among these pleasant thinges
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorow springes.
H. HOWARD (LORD SURREY)
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