Classic Poem

The Fifth Song

S O soon as can a martin from our town
Fly to the river underneath the down,
And back return with mortar in her bill,
Some little cranny in her nest to fill,
The shepherd came, and thus began anew:
Two hours, alas, only two hours are due
From time to him, 'tis sentenc'd so of those
That here on earth as Destinies dispose
The lives and deaths of men; and that time past
He yields his judgment leave and breathes his last.
But to the cause. Great goddess, understand
In Mona Isle thrust from the British land,
As (since it needed nought of others' store)
It would entire be and a part no more,
There liv'd a maid so fair, that for her sake
Since she was born the Isle had never snake,
Nor were it fit a deadly sting should be
To hazard such admired symmetry:
So many beauties so commix'd in one,
That all delight were dead if she were gone,
Shepherds that in her clear eyes did delight,
Whilst they were open never held it night;
And were they shut, although the morning grey
Call'd up the sun, they hardly thought it day;
Or if they call'd it so, they did not pass
Withal to say that it eclipsed was.
The roses on her cheeks, such as each turn,
Phaebus might kiss, but had no pow'r to burn.
From her sweet lips distil sweets sweeter do,
Than from a cherry half way cut in two;
Whose yielding touch would, as Promethean fire,
Lumps truly senseless with a Muse inspire;
Who praising her would youth's desire so stir,
Each man in mind should be a ravisher.
Some say the nimble-witted Mercury
Went late disguis'd professing palmistry,
And milkmaids' fortunes told about the land,
Only to get a touch of her soft hand;
And that a shepherd walking on the brim
Of a clear stream where she did use to swim,
Saw her by chance, and thinking she had been
Of chastity the pure and fairest queen,
Stole thence dismay'd, lest he by her decree
Might undergo Actaeon's destiny.
Did youth's kind heat inflame me (but the snow
Upon my head shows it cool'd long ago),
I then could give, fitting so fair a feature,
Right to her fame, and fame to such a creature.
When now much like a man the palsy shakes
And spectacles befriend, yet undertakes
To limn a lady, to whose red and white
Apelles' curious hand would owe some right:
His too unsteady pencil shadows here
Somewhat too much, and gives not overclear;
His eye deceiv'd mingles his colours wrong,
There strikes too little, and here stays too long,
Does and undoes, takes off, puts on (in vain)
Now too much while, then too much red again;
And thinking then to give some special grace,
He works it ill, or so mistakes the place,
That she which sits were better pay for nought,
Than have it ended, and so lamely wrought:
So do I in this weak description err.
And striving more to grace, more injure her;
For ever where true worth for praise doth call,
He rightly nothing gives that gives not all;
But as a lad who learning to divide,
By one small miss the whole hath falsified.
Caelia men call'd, and rightly call'd her so:
Whom Philocel (of all the swains I know
Most worthy) lov'd: alas! that love should be
Subject to fortune's mutability!
Whatever learned bards tofore have sung,
Or on the plains shepherds and maidens young,
Of sad mishaps in love are set to tell,
Comes short to match the fate of Philocel.
For as a labourer toiling at a bay
To force some clear stream from his wonted way,
Working on this side sees the water run
Where he wrought last and thought it firmly done;
And that leak stopp'd, hears it come breaking out
Another where, in a far greater spout,
Which mended too, and with a turf made trim,
The brook is ready to o'erflow the brim;
Or in the bank the water having got,
Some mole-hole, runs where he expected not;
And when all's done, still fears lest some great rain;
Might bring a flood and throw all down again:
So in our shepherd's love: one hazard gone,
Another still as bad was coming on:
This danger past, another doth begin,
And one mishap thrust out lets twenty in.
For he that loves, and in it hath no stay,
Limits his bliss seld' past the marriage-day.
But Philocel's, alas, and Caelia's too
Must ne'er attain so far as others do;
Else Fortune in them from her course should swerve,
Who most afflicts those that most good deserve.
Twice had the glorious sun run through the signs,
And with his kindly heat improv'd the mines,
(As such affirm with certain hopes that try
The vain and fruitless art of alchemy,)
Since our swain lov'd: and twice had Phaebus been
In horned Aries taking up his inn,
Ere he of Caelia's heart possession won;
And since that time all his intentions done
Nothing to bring her thence. All eyes upon her
Watchful, as Virtue's are on truest honour:
Kept on the Isle as carefully of some,
As by the Trojans their Palladium.
But where's the fortress that can Love debar?
The forces to oppose when he makes war?
The watch which he shall never find asleep?
The spy that shall disclose his counsels deep?
That fort, that force, that watch, that spy would be
A lasting stop to a fifth empery;
But we as well may keep the heat from fire
As sever hearts whom love hath made entire.