THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONIE: CHORUS by MARY SIDNEY HERBERT

THE boiling tempest still
Makes not sea-waters foam,
Nor still the northern blast
Disquiets quiet streams,
Nor who, his chest to fill,
Sails to the morning beams,
On waves wind tosseth fast,
Still keeps his ship from home.

Nor Jove still down doth cast,
Inflamed with bloody ire,
On man, on tree, on hill,
His darts of thundering fire:
Nor still the heat doth last
On face of parched plain,
Nor wrinkled cold doth still
On frozen furrows reign.

But still as long as we
In this low world remain,
Mishaps, our daily mates,
Our lives do entertain;
And woes which bear no dates,
Still perch upon our heads;
None go, but straight will be
Some greater in their steads.

Nature made us not free,
When first she made us live;
When we began to be,
To be began our woe;
Which growing evermore,
As dying life doth grow,
Do more and more us grieve,
And tire us more and more.

O blest who never breath'd,
Or whom, with pity moved,
Death from his cradle 'reav'd,
And swaddled in his grave.
And blessed also he
(As curse may blessing have),
Who low, and living free,
No prince's charge hath prov'd.

By stealing sacred fire,
Prometheus, then unwise,
Provoking gods to ire,
The heap of ills did stir;
And sickness, pale and cold,
Our end which onward spur
To plague our hands, too bold,
To filch the wealth of skies.

In heaven's hate since then,
Of ill with ill enchain'd,
We race of mortal men
Full fraught our breasts have borne;
And thousand, thousand woes
Our heavenly souls now thorn,
Which free before from those,
No earthly passion pain'd.

War and war's bitter cheer
Now long time with us stay,
And fear of hated foe
Still, still increaseth sore.
Our harms worse daily grow:
Less yesterday they were
Than now, and will be more
To-morrow than to-day.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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