Classic Poem

This spoke young Remond: yet the mournful lad
Not once replied; but with a smile, though sad,
He shook his head, then cross'd his arms again,
And from his eyes did showers of salt tears rain;
Which wrought so on the swains, they could not smother
Their sighs, but spent them freely as the other.
Tell us (quoth Doridon), thou fairer far
Than he whose chastity made him a star,
More fit to throw the wounding shafts of Love
Than follow sheep, and pine here in a grove.
O do not hide thy sorrows, show them brief;
“He oft finds aid that doth disclose his grief.”
If thou wouldst it continue, thou dost wrong;
“No man can sorrow very much and long:”
For thus much loving Nature hath dispos'd,
That 'mongst the woes that have us round enclos'd,
This comfort's left (and we should bless her for't)
That we may make our griefs be born, or short.
Believe me, shepherd, we are men no less
Free from the killing throes of heaviness
Than thou art here, and but this diff'rence sure,
That use hath made us apter to endure.
More he had spoke, but that a bugle shrill
Rung through the valley from the higher hill,
And as they turn'd them tow'rds the heart'ning sound,
A gallant stag, as if he scorn'd the ground,
Came running with the wind, and bore his head
As he had been the king of forests bred.
Not swifter comes the messenger of heaven,
Or winged vessel with a full gale driven,
Nor the swift swallow flying near the ground,
By which the air's distemp'rature is found:
Nor Myrrha's course, nor Daphne's speedy flight,
Shunning the dalliance of the God of light,
Than seem'd the stag, that had no sooner cross'd them,
But in a trice their eyes as quickly lost him.
The weeping swain ne'er mov'd, but as his eyes
Were only given to show his miseries,
Attended those; and could not once be won
To leave that object whence his tears begun.
O had that man, who (by a tyrant's hand)
Seeing his children's bodies strew the sand,
And he next morn for torments press'd to go,
Yet from his eyes let no one small tear flow,
But being ask'd how well he bore their loss,
Like to a man affliction could not cross,
He stoutly answer'd: Happier sure are they
Than I shall be by space of one short day:
No more his grief was; but had he been here,
He had been flint, had he not spent a tear.
For still that man the perfecter is known,
Who others' sorrows feels more than his own.
Remond and Doridon were turning then
Unto the most disconsolate of men,
But that a gallant dame, fair as the morn
Or lovely blooms the peach-tree that adorn,
Clad in a changing silk, whose lustre shone
Like yellow flowers and grass far off in one,
Or like the mixture Nature doth display
Upon the quaint wings of the popinjay:
Her horn about her neck with silver tip,
Too hard a metal for so soft a lip,
Which it no oft'ner kiss'd than Jove did frown,
And in a mortal's shape would fain come down
To feed upon those dainlies, had not he
Been still kept back by Juno's jealousy.
An ivory dart she held of good command,
White was the bone, but whiter was her hand;
Of many pieces was it neatly fram'd,
But more the hearts were that her eyes inflam'd.
Upon her head a green light silken cap:
A piece of white lawn shadow'd either pap,
Between which hillocks many Cupids lay,
Where with her neck or with her teats they play,
Whilst her quick heart will not with them dispense,
But heaves her breasts as it would beat them thence:
Who, fearing much to lose so sweet repair,
Take faster hold by her dishevell'd hair.
Swiftly she ran; the sweet briars to receive her
Slipp'd their embracements, and (as loath to leave her)
Stretch'd themselves to their length; yet on she goes.
So great Diana frays a herd of roes
And speedy follows: Arethusa fled
So from the river that her ravished.
When this brave huntress near the shepherds drew
Her lily arm in full extent she threw
To pluck a little bough to fan her face
From off a thick-leav'd ash (no tree did grace
The low grove as did this, the branches spread
Like Neptune's trident upwards from the head).
No sooner did the grieved shepherd see
The nymph's white hand extended tow'rds the tree,
But rose and to her ran, yet she had done
Ere he came near, and to the wood was gone;
Yet now approach'd the bough the huntress tore,
He suck'd it with his mouth, and kiss'd it o'er
A hundred times, and softly 'gan it bind
With dock-leaves and a slip of willow rind.
Then round the trunk he wreathes nis weaken'd arms,
And with his scalding tears the smooth bark warms,
Sighing and groaning, that the shepherds by
Forgot to help him, and lay down to cry:
“For 'tis impossible a man should be
Griev'd to himself, or fail of company.”
Much the two swains admir'd, but pitied more
That he no power of words had to deplore
Or show what sad misfortune 'twas befell
To him, whom Nature (seem'd) regarded well.
As thus they lay, and while the speechless swain
His tears and sighs spent to the woods in vain,
One like a wild man overgrown with hair,
His nails long grown, and all his body bare,
Save that a wreath of ivy twist did hide
Those parts which Nature would not have descried,
And the long hair that curled from his head
A grassy garland rudely covered—
But, shepherds, I have wrong'd you; 'tis now late,
For see our maid stands hollowing on yond gate.
'Tis supper-tune withal, and we had need
Make haste away unless we mean to speed
With those that kiss the hare's foot: rheums are bred,
Some say, by going supperless to bed,
And those I love not; therefore cease my rhyme,
And put my pipes up till another time.