Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE AUTHOR OF BRITANNIA'S MATCHLESS (THOUGH UNFINISH'D) PASTORALS, by PERIGOT [PSEUD.]


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE AUTHOR OF BRITANNIA'S MATCHLESS (THOUGH UNFINISH'D) PASTORALS, by                    
First Line: Look how the dying swan on tagus' shore
Last Line: And as we plait for thee a matchless coronal
Alternate Author Name(s): Perigot
Subject(s): "browne, William (1591-1645);


1.

LOOK how the dying swan on Tagus' shore,
Singing a lullably to her last sleep,
Ties to her golden tongue the leaping ore,
And binds th' ashamed water-nymphs to keep
Eternal silence, whilst the dumb waves stay,
And dare not with their murmuring pebbles play,
Or through the whistling rushes take their wonted way:

2.

Look how the gentle breath of southern gales,
Buzzing their tunes amongst the querulous reeds.
Or whispering music to the sounding vales,
In all the aëry nation envy breeds,
And into sleep the lazy grooms doth rock,
Or calls th' amazed shepherd from his flock,
And prompts the straining echo of the neighbouring rock:

3.

So sat our noble Willy, happy swain,
With peerless songs encroaching sorrow drowning,
And Tavy's curled locks (who danc'd amain
Unto his pipe) with bays immortal crowning;
The whilst the woods their leafy heads inclin'd,
In list'ning wise, and mix'd their envious wind
With those more heavenly airs which in his voice they find.

4.

Once when the jolly lad began a lay
Of his Marina's fate, the wond'ring rout
Of neighbouring swains, leaving their wonted play,
Ran to encircle their new Pan about,
Where grown forgetful of their former care,
Although they fed on nought but his sweet air,
Vow'd that the quintessence of nectar was their fare.

5.

And as their captive souls were chain'd unto
The charming pipe; when they it least suspected,
The smiles and winks which forth did steal, would show
How much that loved sound they all respected,
And all amaz'd in a deep ecstasy
Would swear he was some chorister of the sky,
Or (though their eyes said no) Phœbus' own deity.

Each peerless nymph that bathes her dewy curls
In too too happy Tavy's crystal waves,
Into the singing, echoing champion hurls,
And there our Willy's head with flow'rs embraves,
Robs her own banks, and decks a coronet
With blushing roses and the violet,
Which on the head of her admired swain is set.

7.

The merry emulous songsters of the wood
In silence listen'd to his better song,
And the soft murmurs of the bubbling flood
(Which seem'd to laugh as he did ride along)
Presum'd to bear the burthen of his lay,
The whilst the jocund satyrs all would say
They were not half so blest even on Pan's holiday.

8.

But midst these thankful shouts and signs of joy,
Whilst all expect to see a happy close,
Upon the sudden starts the peevish boy,
And runs away in haste as from his foes:
Nor can our speaking sighs, and begging tears,
Nor all our prayers and plaints he daily hears,
Or melt his stubborn heart, or banish his vain fears.

9.

So, when as Philomel her hapless fate
Unto the tell-tale echo doth bemoan,
The whilst some envious bough presents in hate
A dagger to her breast, and there is none
That praises not her music's heavenly grace,
The bashful bird with leaves doth veil her face.
Or to her shroud and tomb, some thicket, flies apace.

10.

And now he haunts the woods and silent groves,
(Poor lad) and teaches silence to the winds;
H' has now forgot our sports and harmless loves.
Ah! can such deeds agree with heavenly minds?
Great flakes of moss, bred in some silent cave,
Stop his pipe's mouth, and now his spirit leave,
Now a dead soul entomb'd within a living grave.

11.

But, Willy boy, let not eternal sleep
Captive thy sprightly Muse; so shall we all
Rejoice at her new life, and henceforth keep
Unto thy name a yearly festival;
May she but imp her wings with thy blest pen,
And take her wonted flight, heaven says Amen,
The music of the spheres shall ne'er be heard again.

12.

So may a sunshine day smile on our sports,
So may the pretty lambs live free from harm,
So may the tender lass that here resorts
Ne'er feel the clownish winds' cold boist'rous arm.
As we do love thee, Willy, as we all
Do wistly for thy peerless music call,
And as we plait for thee a matchless coronal.





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