Classic Poem

Look, as two little brothers who address'd
To search the hedges for a thrush's nest,
And have no sooner got the leavy spring,
When mad in lust with fearful bellowing
A strong-neck'd bull pursues throughout the field,
One climbs a tree, and takes that for his shield,
Whence looking from one pasture to another,
What might betide to his much-loved brother,
Further than can his over-drowned eyes
Aright perceive, the furious beast he spies
Toss something on his horns, he knows not what,
But one thing fears, and therefore thinks it that;
When coming nigher he doth well discern
It of the wondrous-one-night-seeding fern
Some bundle was: yet thence he homeward goes
Pensive and sad, nor can abridge the throes
His fear began, but still his mind doth move
Unto the worst: mistrust goes still with love.
So far'd it with our shepherd: though he saw
Not aught of Fida's raiment, which might draw
A more suspicion; though the collar lay
There on the grass, yet goes he thence away
Full of mistrust, and vows to leave that plain,
Till he embrace his chastest love again.
Love-wounded Doridon entreats him then
That he might be his partner, since no men
Had cases liker; he with him would go,
Weep when he wept, and sigh when he did so,
I, quoth the boy, will sing thee songs of love,
And as we sit in some all-shady grove,
Where Philomela and such sweeten'd throats
Are for the mast'ry tuning various notes,
I'll strive with them, and tune so sad a verse,
That whilst to thee my fortunes I rehearse,
No bird but shall be mute, her note decline,
And cease her woe, to lend an ear to mine.
I'll tell thee tales of love, and show thee how
The gods have wander'd as we shepherds now,
And when thou plain'st thy Fida's loss, will I
Echo the same, and with mine own supply.
Know, Remond, I do love, but, well-a-day!
I know not whom; but as the gladsome May
She's fair and lovely, as a goddess she
(If such as her's a goddess' beauty be)
First stood before me, and inquiring was
How to the marish she might soonest pass,
When rush'd a villain in, hell be his lot,
And drew her thence, since when I saw her not,
Nor know I where to search; but if thou please
'Tis not a forest, mountain, rocks, or seas
Can in thy journey stop my going on.
Fate so may smile on hapless Doridon,
That he rebless'd may be with her fair sight,
Though thence his eyes possess eternal night.
Remond agreed, and many weary days
They now had spent in unfrequented ways:
About the rivers, valleys, holts and crags,
Among the osiers and the waving flags
They nearly pry, if any dens there be,
Where from the sun might harbour cruelty:
Or if they could the bones of any spy,
Or torn by beasts, or human tyranny.
They close inquiry make in caverns blind,
Yet what they look for would be death to find.
Right as a curious man that would descry,
Led by the trembling hand of Jealousy,
If his fair wife have wrong'd his bed or no,
Meeteth his torment if he find her so.
One ev'n, ere Phœbus near the golden shore
Of Tagus' stream his journey 'gan give o'er,
They had ascended up a woody hill,
Where oft the fauni with their bugles shrill
Waken'd the echo, and with many a shout
Follow'd the fearful deer the woods about,
Or through the brakes that hide the craggy rocks
Digg'd to the hole where lies the wily fox;
Thence they beheld an underlying vale,
Where Flora set her rarest flowers at sale,
Whither the thriving bee came oft to suck them,
And fairest nymphs to deck their hair did pluck them;
Where oft the goddesses did run at base,
And on white harts began the wild-goose-chase:
Here various Nature seem'd adorning this,
In imitation of the fields of bliss;
Or as she would entice the souls of men
To leave Elysium, and live here again.
Not Hybla mountain in the jocund prime
Upon her many bushes of sweet thyme
Shows greater number of industrious bees,
Than were the birds that sung there on the trees.
Like the trim windings of a wanton lake,
That doth his passage through a meadow make,
Ran the delightful valley 'tween two hills:
From whose rare trees the precious balm distils,
And hence Apollo had his simples good
That cur'd the gods hurt by the Earth's ill brood.
A crystal river on her bosom slid,
And passing seem'd in sullen mutt'rings chid
The artless songsters, that their music still
Should charm the sweet date and the wistful hill:
Not suffering her shrill waters, as they run
Tun'd with a whistling gale in unison
To tell as high they priz'd the broider'd vale
As the quick linnet or sweet nightingale.
Down from a steep rock came the water first,
(Where lusty satyrs often quench'd their thirst)
And with no little speed seem'd all in haste,
Till it the lovely bottom had embrac'd:
Then as entranc'd to hear the sweet birds sing,
In curled whirlpools she her course doth bring,
As loath to leave the songs that lull'd the dale,
Or waiting time, when she and some soft gale
Should speak what true delight they did possess
Among the rare flowers which the valley dress.
But since those quaint musicians would not stay,
Nor suffer any to be heard but they:
Much like a little lad who gotten new
To play his part amongst a skilful crew
Of choice musicians on some softer string
That is not heard, the others' fingering
Drowning his art, the boy would gladly get
Applause with others that are of his set,
And therefore strikes a stroke loud as the best,
And often descants when his fellows rest;
That to he heard (as usual singers do)
Spoils his own music and his partners' too:
So at the further end the waters fell
From off an high bank down a lowly dell,
As they had vow'd, ere passing from that ground,
The birds should be enforc'd to hear their sound.