Classic Poem

Lovely Idya, the most beauteous
Of all the darlings of Oceanus,
Hesperia's envy and the Western pride,
Whose party-coloured garment Nature dy'd
In more eye-pleasing hues, with richer grain,
Than Iris' bow attending April's rain;
Whose lily white inshaded with the rose
Had that man seen who sung th' Eneidos,
Dido had in oblivion slept, and she
Had given his Muse her best eternity.
Had brave Atrides, who did erst employ
His force to mix his dead with those of Troy,
Been proffer'd for a truce her feigned peace.
Helen had stay'd, and that had gone to Greece:
The Phrygian soil had not been drunk with blood,
Achilles longer breath'd, and Troy yet stood:
The prince of poets had not sung his story,
My friend had lost his ever-living glory.
But as a snowy Swan, who many a day
On Tamar's swelling breasts hath had her play,
For further pleasure doth assay to swim
My native Tavy, or the sandy Plim;
And on the panting billows bravely rides,
Whilst country-lasses, walking on the sides,
Admire her beauty, and with clapping hands,
Would force her leave the stream, and tread the sands,
When she, regardless, swims to th' other edge,
Until an envious briar, or tangling sedge,
Despoils her plumes; or else a sharpen'd beam
Pierceth her breast, and on the bloody stream
She pants for life: so whilom rode this maid
On streams of worldly bliss, more rich array'd
With Earth's delight than thought could put in ure
To glut the senses of an epicure.
Whilst neighb'ring kings upon their frontiers stood,
And offer'd for her dower huge seas of blood:
And perjur'd Gerion to win her rent
The Indian rocks for gold, and bootless spent,
Almost his patrimony for her sake,
Yet nothing like respected as the Drake
That scour'd her channels, and destroy'd the weed
Which spoil'd her fishers' nets and fishes' breed.
At last her truest love she threw upon
A royal youth, whose like, whose paragon,
Heaven never lent the Earth: so great a spirit
The world could not contain, nor kingdoms merit:
And therefore Jove did with the saints enthrone him,
And left his lady nought but tears to moan him.
Within this place (as woful as my verse)
She with her crystal founts bedew'd his hearse;
Inveiled with a sable weed she sat,
Singing this song which stones dissolved at.

What time the world, clad in a mourning-robe,
A stage made for a woful tragedy;
When showers of tears from the celestial globe
Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Britany;
When sighs as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Envy wept,
And Comfort stept,
When Cruelty itself sat almost crying,
Nought being heard but what the mind affrights;
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder, died.

O saddest strain that e'er the Muses sung!
A text of woe for Grief to comment on;
Tears, sighs, and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
Which done, my heart in flames of burning love
(Wanting his moisture) shall to cinders turn;
But first, by me
Bequeathed be
To strew the place wherein his sacred urn
Shall be enclos'd: this might in many inove
The like effect: who would not do it when
No grave befits him but the hearts of men?

That man whose mass of sorrows hath been such,
That by their weight laid on each several part,
His fountains are so dry, he but as much
As one poor drop hath left to ease his heart;
Why should he keep it? since the time doth call,
That he ne'er better can bestow it in;
If so he fears
That others' tears
In greater number, greatest prizes win;
Know none gives more than he which giveth all.
Then he which hath but one poor tear in store,
O let him spend that drop, and weep no more.

Why flows not Helicon beyond her strands?
Is Henry dead, and do the Muses sleep?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands;
" Shallow fords mutter, silent are the deep. "
Fain would they tell their griefs, but know not where;
All are so full, nought can augment their store:
Then how should they
Their griefs display
To men so cloy'd, they fain would hear no more,
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot hear?
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that Muse never speak that's silent now!