Classic Poem

Methought in slumber as I lay and dreamt,
I saw a silent spring rail'd in with jet,
From sunny shade or murmur quite exempt,
The glide whereof 'gainst weeping flints did beat;
And round about were leafless beeches set;
So dark, it seem'd night's mantle for to borrow,
And well to be the gloomy den of sorrow.

About this spring, in mourning robes of black,
Were sundry nymphs or goddesses, methought,
That seemly sat in ranks, just back to back,
On mossy benches nature there had wrought;
And 'cause the wind and spring no murmer brought,
They fill'd the air with such laments and groans
That Echo sigh'd out their heart-breaking moans.

Elbow on knee, and head upon their hand,
As mourners sit, so sat these ladies all:
Garlands of eben-boughs, whereon did stand
A golden crown; their mantles were of pall;
And from their watery eyes warm tears did fall:
With wringing hands they sat and sigh'd, like those
That had more grief than well they could disclose.

I look'd about and by the fount I spied
A knight lie dead, yet all in armour clad,
Booted and spur'd; a falchion by his side,
A crown of olives on his helm he had;
As if in peace and war he were adrad:
A golden hind was placed at his feet,
Whose veiled ears bewray'd her inward greet.

She seemed wounded by her panting breath;
Her beating breast with sighs did fall and rise:
Wounds there were none; it was her master's death
That drew electrum from her weeping eyes.
Like scalding smoke her braying throbs
As deer do mourn when arrow hath them gall'd,
So was this hind with heart-sick pains enthrall'd.

Just at his head there sat a sumptuous queen;
I guess'd her so for why she wore a crown:
Yet were her garments parted white and green,
'Tir'd like unto the picture of renown
Upon her lap she laid his head adown:
Unlike to all, she smiled on his face;
Which made me long to know this dead man's case.

As thus I look'd, 'gan Justice to arise;
I knew the goddess by her equal beam;
And dewing on his face balm from her eyes,
She wet his visage with a yearnful stream:
Sad, mournful looks did from her arch's gleam;
And like to one whom sorrow deep attaints,
With heaved hands she poureth forth these plaints.