Classic Poem

Thus came he down into a narrow vault,
Whose rocky sides (free from the smallest fault,
Enforc'd by age or weather) and the roof
Stood firmly strong and almost thunder-proof.
'Twas long; and at the far-off further end
A little lamp he spies, as he had kenn'd
One of the fixed stars; the light was small,
And distance made it almost nought at all.
Tow'rds it he came, and, from the swain which fled,
These verses fall'n took up, went near and read:

Listen! ye gentle winds, to my sad moan;
And, mutt'ring brooks, attend my heavy plaints.
Ye melodists, which in the low groves sing,
Strive with your fellows for sweet skill no more,
But wail with me! and if my song ye pass
For dreary notes, match with the nightingale.
Henceforward with the rueful nightingale
No other but sad groves shall hear my moan,
And night bear witness of my doleful plaints.
Sweet songs of love let others quaintly sing,
For fate decrees I shall be known no more
But by my woes. All pleasures from me pass,
As gliding torrents to the ocean pass,
Ne'er to come back. The all-voice nightingale
Comforts her fellows, and makes dear her moan;
But (where I would) regardless are my plaints,
And but for echo should unanswer'd sing;
Can there in others be affection more
Than is in me, yet be neglected more?
Then such neglect and love shall no man pass.
For voice she well may mate the nightingale,
And from her syren's song I learn'd to moan;
Yet she, as most imperfect deems my plaints,
Though too too long I them have us'd to sing,
Yet to no happier key she lets me sing.
Shall I then change? O, there are others more
(As I hear shepherds wailing, when I pass
In deserts wild to hear the nightingale)
Whose ears receive no sound of any moan,
But hear their praises rather than our plaints.
Then since to flint I still address my plaints,
And my sad numbers to a deaf ear sing,
My cries shall beat the subtile air no more,
But all my woes imprison; and so pass
The poor rest of my days. No nightingale
Shall be disturb'd in forests with my moan.
And when through inpent moan I hide my plaints,
And what I should sing makes me live no more,
Tell her my woes did pass the nightingale.

Sad swain, quoth Celadyne, whoe'er thou be,
I grieve not at my pains to follow thee;
Thou art a fit companion for my woe,
Which hearts sunk into misery should know.
O, if thou hear me, speak; take to thy home!
Receive into this dismal living tomb
A sorrow-laden wretch! one that would die
And tread the gloomy shades of destiny
Only to meet a soul that could relate
A story true as his and passionate!
By this a sad and heavy sound began
To fill the cave; and by degrees he wan
So near, he heard a well-accorded lute,
Touch'd by a hand had struck the Thracian mute.
Had it been heard when sweet Amphion's tones
Gave motion to the dull and senseless stones;
When, at the notes his skilful fingers warble,
The pebble took the flint, the flint the marble;
And rolling from the quarry justly fall,
And masonless built Cadmus' town a wall.
Each one each other to this labour woo,
And were the workmen and materials too.
Had this man play'd when t' other touch'd his lyre,
Those stones had from the wall been seen retire;
Or stopp'd half-way to hear him striking thus,
Though each had been a stone of Sisyphus.
Nay, the musician had his skill approv'd,
And been as ravish'd as the rocks he mov'd.
Celadyne listen'd; and the arched skies
Might wish themselves as many ears as eyes,
That they might teach the star-bestudded spheres
A music new, and more divine than theirs.
To these sad sweet strings, as e'er woe befriended,
This verse was married: —

Yet one day's rest for all my cries!
One hour amongst so many!
Springs have their sabbaths; my poor eyes
Yet never met with any.

He that doth but one woe miss,
O Death, to make him thine;
I would to God that I had his,
Or else that he had mine!

By this sad wish we two should have
A fortune and a wife;
For I should wed a peaceful grave,
And he a happy life.

Yet let that man whose fortunes swim
So high by my sad woe,
Forbear to tread a step on him
That died to make them so.

Only to acquit my foes,
Write this where I am lain:
Here lies the man whom others' woes
And those he lov'd have slain.
Here the music ended.
But Celadyne leaves not his pious quest;
For, as an artist curiously address'd
To some conclusion, having haply found
A small encouragement on his first ground,
Goes cheerful on; nor from it can be won,
Till he have perfected what he begun:
So he pursues, and labours all he can,
Since he had heard the voice, to find the man.