Classic Poem

A vale there is, enwrapt with dreadfull shades,
Which thicke, of mourning pynes, shrouds from the sunne,
Where hanging clyftes yelde shorte and dumpish glades,
And snowye fludd with broken streames doth runne.

Where eye rome is from rockes to clowdye skye,
From thence to dales with stony ruyns strowd,
Then to the crushed water's frothy frye,
Which tumbleth from the toppes where snowe is thowde.

Where eares of other sounde can have no choise,
But various blustringe of the stubborne wynde
In trees, in caves, in strayts with divers noyse;
Which now doth hisse, now howle, now roare by kinde.

Where waters wrastle with encountringe stones,
That breake their streames and turne them into fome,
The hollowe cloudes full fraught with thundring grones,
With hideous thumpes discharge their pregnant wome.

And in the horrour of this fearefull quire
Consistes the musicke of this dolefull place;
All pleasant birdes their tunes from thence retyre,
Where none but heavy notes have any grace.

Resort there is of none but pilgrimm wightes,
That passe with trembling foote and panting hart;
With terrour cast in colde and shuddring frightes,
They judge the place to terror framed by art.

Yett Nature's worke it is, of art untowch't,
So straite in deede, so vast unto the eye,
With such disordred order strangely cowcht,
And so with pleasing horrour low and hye,

That who it vewes must needes remayne agaste,
Much at the worke, more at the Maker's mighte;
And muse how Nature suche a plott coulde caste
Where nothing seemed wronge, yett nothinge right.

A place for mated myndes, an onely boure
Where everye thinge doth sooth a dumpish moode;
Earth lyes forlorne, the clowdy skye doth lowre,
The wind here weepes, here sighes, here cryes alowde.

The strugling floode betwene the marble grones,
Then roaring beates uppon the craggy sides;
A little off, amids the pible stones,
With bubling streames and purling noyse it glides.

The pynes thicke sett, highe growen and ever greene,
Still cloath the place with sadd and mourning vayle;
Here gapinge cliffe, there mossy playne is seene,
Here hope doth springe, and there agayne doth quaile.

Huge massy stones that hange by ticle staye,
Still threaten fall, and seeme to hange in feare;
Some withered trees, ashamd of their decaye,
Besett with greene are forc'd gray coates to weare.

Here christall springes crept out of secrete veyne,
Strait finde some envious hole that hides their grace;
Here seared tuftes lament the wante of rayne,
There thunder-wrack gives terrour to the place.

All pangues and heavy passions here may finde
A thowsand motives sutely to theire greifes,
To feed the sorrowes of their troubled mynde,
And chase away dame Pleasure's vayne releifes.

To playninge thoughtes this vale a rest may bee,
To which from worldly joyes they may retire;
Where Sorowe springes from water, stone and tree;
Where every thinge with mourners doth conspire.

Sett here, my soule, mayn streames of teares aflote,
Here all thy synnfull foyles alone recounte;
Of solemne tunes make thou the dollfullst note,
That, to thy dityes, dolour maye amounte.

When eccho doth repeate thy playnefull cryes,
Thinck that the very stones thy synnes bewray,
And nowe accuse thee with their sadd replyes,
As heaven and earth shall in the later day.

Lett former faultes be fuell of the fire,
For greife, in lymbeck of thy hart, to 'still
Thy pensive thoughtes and dumpes of thy desire,
And vapour teares upp to thy eyes at will.

Lett teares to tunes, and paynes to playnts be prest,
And lett this be the burdon of thy songe —
Come, deepe Remorse, possesse my synfull brest;
Delightes, adiew! I harboured yowe too longe.