Classic Poem

When first the post arrived at my tent,
And brought the letters Rosamond had sent,
Think from his lips but what dear comfort came,
When in mine ear he softly breathed thy name.
Straight I enjoined him of thy health to tell,
Longing to hear my Rosamond did well;
With new inquiries then I cut him short,
When of the same he gladly would report,
That with the earnest haste my tongue oft trips,
Catching the words half spoke out of his lips:
This told, yet more I urge him to reveal,
To lose no time, whilst I unripped the seal.
The more I read, still do I err the more,
As though mistaking somewhat said before:
Missing the point, the doubtful sense is broken,
Speaking again what I before had spoken.
Still in a swoon my heart revives and faints
'Twixt hopes, despairs, 'twixt smiles and deep complaints,
As these sad accents sort in my desires,
Smooth calms, rough storms, sharp frost, and raging fires,
Put on with boldness, and put back with fears,
For oft thy troubles do extort my tears.
O! how my heart at that black line did tremble,
That blotted paper should thyself resemble.
O! were there paper but near half so white,
The gods thereon their sacred laws would write
With pens of angels' wings; and for their ink,
That heavenly nectar, their immortal drink!
Majestic courage strives to have suppressed
This fearful passion, stirred up in my breast;
But still in vain the same I go about,
My heart must break within, or woes break out.
Am I at home pursued with private hate,
And war comes raging to my palace gate?
Is meagre Envy stabbing at my throne,
Treason attending when I walk alone?
And am I branded with the curse of Rome,
And stand condemned by a council's doom?
And by the pride of my rebellious son,
Rich Normandy with armies over-run?
Fatal my birth, unfortunate my life,
Unkind my children, most unkind my wife.
Grief, cares, old age, suspicion to torment me,
Nothing on earth to quiet or content me;
So many woes, so many plagues, to find,
Sickness of body, discontent of mind;
Hopes left, helps reft, life wronged, joy interdicted,
Banished, distressed, forsaken, and afflicted.
Of all relief hath Fortune quite bereft me,
Only my love yet to my comfort left me?
And is one beauty thought so great a thing,
To mitigate the sorrows of a king?
Barred of that choice the vulgar often prove,
Have we, than they, less privilege in love?
Is it a king the woeful widow hears?
Is it a king dries up the orphans' tears?
Is it a king regards the client's cry?
Gives life to him, by law condemned to die?
Is it his care the commonwealth that keeps,
As doth the nurse her baby whilst it sleeps?
And that poor king of all those hopes prevented,
Unheard, unhelped, unpitied, unlamented?
Yet let me be with poverty oppressed,
Of earthly blessings robbed and dispossessed;
Let me be scorned, rejected, and reviled,
And from my kingdom let me live exiled;
Let the world's curse upon me still remain,
And let the last bring on the first again;
All miseries that wretched man may wound,
Leave for my comfort only Rosamond.
For thee swift Time his speedy course doth stay,
At thy command the Destinies obey;
Pity is dead, that comes not from thine eyes,
And at thy feet even Mercy prostrate lies.
If I were feeble, rheumatic, or cold,
These were true signs that I were waxed old;
But I can march all day in massy steel,
Nor yet my arms' unwieldy weight do feel;
Nor waked by night with bruise or bloody wound,
The tent my bed, no pillow but the ground.
For very age had I lain bed-rid long,
One smile of thine again could make me young.
Were there in art a power but so divine,
As is in that sweet angel-tongue of thine,
That great enchantress, which once took such pains
To put young blood into old Aeson's veins,
And in groves, mountains, and the moorish fen,
Sought out more herbs than had been known to men,
And in the powerful potion that she makes,
Put blood of men, of birds, of beasts, and snakes,
Never had needed to have gone so far,
To seek the soils where all those simples are;
One accent from thy lips the blood more warms,
Than all her philtres, exorcisms, and charms.
Thy presence hath repaired, in one day,
What many years with sorrows did decay,
And made fresh beauty in her flower to spring
Out of the wrinkles of time's ruining.
Even as the hungry winter-starved earth,
When she by nature labours towards her birth,
Still as the day upon the dark world creeps,
One blossom forth after another peeps,
Till the small flower, whose root at last unbound
Gets from the frosty prison of the ground,
Spreading the leaves unto the powerful noon,
Decked in fresh colours smiles upon the sun.
Never unquiet care lodged in that breast,
Where but one thought of Rosamond did rest;
Nor thirst nor travail, which on war attend,
Ere brought the long day to desired end;
Nor yet did pale fear or lean famine live,
Where hope of thee did any comfort give.
Ah! what injustice then is this of thee,
That thus the guiltless dost condemn for me?
When only she (by means of my offence)
Redeems thy pureness and thy innocence.
When to our wills perforce obey they must,
That 's just in them, whate'er in us unjust;
Of what we do, not them, account we make,
The fault craves pardon for th' offender's sake;
And what to work a prince's will may merit,
Hath deep'st impression in the gentlest spirit.
If 't be my name that doth thee so offend,
No more myself shall be mine own name's friend;
If it be that which thou dost only hate,
That name in my name lastly has his date.
Say, 'tis accurst and fatal, and dispraise it;
If written, blot it; if engraven, raze it;
Say, that of all names 'tis a name of woe,
Once a king's name, but now it is not so:
And when all this is done, I know 'twill grieve thee,
And therefore (Sweet) why should I now believe thee?
Nor shouldst thou think those eyes with envy lour,
Which, passing by thee, gaze up to thy tower;
But rather praise thine own, which be so clear,
Which from the turret like two stars appear.
Above, the sun doth shine; beneath, thine eye,
Mocking the heaven, to make another sky.
The little stream which by thy tower doth glide,
Where oft thou spend'st the weary evening-tide,
To view thee well, his course would gladly stay,
As loth from thee to part so soon away,
And with salutes thyself would gladly greet,
And offer up some small drops at thy feet;
But finding that the envious banks restrain it,
T'excuse itself, doth in this sort complain it,
And therefore this sad bubbling murmur keeps,
And for thy want within the channel weeps.
And as thou dost into the water look,
The fish, which see thy shadow in the brook,
Forget to feed, and all amazed lie,
So daunted with the lustre of thine eye.
And that sweet name, which thou so much dost wrong,
In time shall be some famous poet's song;
And with the very sweetness of that name
Lions and tigers men shall learn to tame.
The careful mother, at her pensive breast,
With Rosamond shall bring her babe to rest;
The little birds (by men's continual sound)
Shall learn to speak and prattle Rosamond;
And when in April they begin to sing,
With Rosamond shall welcome in the spring;
And she in whom all rarities are found,
Shall still be said to be a Rosamond.
The little flowers dropping their honeyed dew,
Which (as thou writest) do weep upon thy shoe,
Not for thy fault (sweet Rosamond) do moan,
Only lament, that thou so soon art gone;
For if thy foot touch hemlock as it goes,
That hemlock's made more sweeter than the rose.
Of Jove or Neptune, how they did betray,
Speak not, of Io or Amymone;
When she, for whom Jove once became a bull,
Compared with thee, had been a tawny trull;
He a white bull, and she a whiter cow,
Yet he nor she near half so white as thou.
Long since (thou know'st) my care provided for
To lodge thee safe from jealous Ellinor;
The labyrinth's conveyance guides thee so,
(Which only Vaughan, thou, and I, do know)
If she do guard thee with an hundred eyes,
I have an hundred subtle Mercuries,
To watch that Argus which my love doth keep,
Until eye after eye fall all to sleep.
And those stars which look in, but look to see
(Wondering) what star here on the earth should be;
As oft the moon, amidst the silent night,
Hath come to joy us with her friendly light,
And by the curtain helped mine eye to see,
What envious night and darkness hid from me;
When I have wished that she might ever stay,
And other worlds might still enjoy the day.
What should I say? Words, tears, and sighs be spent,
And want of time doth further help prevent.
My camp resounds with fearful shocks of war,
Yet in my breast more dangerous conflicts are;
Yet is my signal to the battle's sound
The blessed name of beauteous Rosamond.
Accursed be that heart, that tongue, that breath,
Should think, should speak, or whisper of thy death;
For in one smile or lour from thy sweet eye
Consists my life, my hope, my victory.
Sweet Woodstock, where my Rosamond doth rest,
Be blest in her, in whom thy king is blest:
For though in France awhile my body be,
My heart remains (dear Paradise) in thee.