Classic Poem

A LAS that I have done so great a wrong
Unto the fairest maiden of my song,
Divine Marina, who in Limos' cave
Lies ever fearful of a living grave,
And night and day upon the harden'd stones
Rests, if a rest can be amongst the moans
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand still afraid to hear the death's-man call.
Thrice had the golden sun his hot steeds wash'd
In the west main, and thrice them smartly lash'd
Out of the balmy east, since the sweet maid
Had in that dismal cave been sadly laid.
Where hunger pinch'd her so, she need not stand
In fear of murd'ring by a second hand:
For through her tender sides such darts might pass
'Gainst which strong walls of stone, thick gates of brass,
Deny no entrance, nor the camps of kings,
Since soonest there they bend their flaggy wings.
But Heaven that stands still for the best's avail,
Lendeth his hand when human helpings fail;
For 'twere impossible that such as she
Should be forgotten of the Deity;
Since in the spacious orb could no man find
A fairer face match'd with a fairer mind.
A little robin-redbreast, one clear morn,
Sat sweetly singing on a well-leav'd thorn:
Whereat Marina rose, and did admire
He durst approach from whence all else retire:
And pitying the sweet bird what in her lay,
She fully strove to fright him thence away.
Poor harmless wretch, quoth she, go, seek some spring,
And to her sweet fall with thy fellows sing;
Fly to the well-replenish'd groves, and there
Do entertain each swain's harmonious ear;
Traverse the winding branches; chant so free,
That every lover fall in love with thee;
And if thou chance to see that lovely boy
(To look on whom the sylvans count a joy):
He whom I lov'd no sooner than I lost,
Whose body all the Graces hath engross'd,
To him unfold (if that thou dar'st to be
So near a neighbour to my tragedy)
As far as can thy voice (in plaints so sad,
And in so many mournful accents clad,
That as thou sing'st upon a tree there by
He may some small time weep, yet know not why),
How I in death was his, though Powers divine
Will not permit that he in life be mine.
Do this, thou loving bird; and haste away
Into the woods: but if so be thou stay
To do a deed of charity on me,
When my pure soul shall leave mortality,
By cov'ring this poor body with a sheet
Of green leaves, gather'd from a valley sweet;
It is in vain: these harmless limbs must have
Than in the caitiff's womb no other grave.
Hence then, sweet robin; lest in staying long
At once thou chance lorego both life and song.
With this she hush'd him thence; he sung no more,
But ('fraid the second time) flew tow'rds the shore.
Within as short time as the swiftest swain
Can to our May-pole run and come again,
The little redbreast to the prickled thorn
Return'd, and sung there as he had beforn:
And fair Marina to the loophole went,
Pitying the pretty bird, whose punishment
Limos would not defer if he were spied.
No sooner had the bird the maiden eyed,
But leaping on the rock, down from a bough,
He takes a cherry up (which he but now
Had thither brought, and in that place had laid
Till to the cleft his song had drawn the maid),
And flying with the small stem in his bill,
(A choicer fruit than hangs on Bacchus' hill,)
In fair Marina's bosom took his rest,
A heavenly seat fit for so sweet a guest:
Where Cytherea's doves might billing sit,
And gods and men with envy look on it;
Where rose two mountains, whose rare sweets to crop
Was harder than to reach Olympus' top:
For those the gods can; but to climb these hills
Their powers no other were than mortal wills.
Here left the bird the cherry, and anon
Forsook her bosom, and for more is gone,
Making such speedy flights into the thick,
That she admir'd he went and came so quick.
Then lest his many cherries should distaste,
Some other fruit he brings than he brought last.
Sometime of strawberries a little stem,
Oft changing colours as he gather'd them:
Some green, some white, some red on them infus'd,
These lov'd, those fear'd, they blush'd to be so us'd.
The peascod green oft with no little toil
He'd seek for in the fattest, fertil'st soil,
And rend it from the stalk to bring it to her,
And in her bosom for acceptance woo her.
No berry in the grove or forest grew,
That fit for nourishment the kind bird knew,
Nor any powerful herb in open field
To serve her brood the teeming earth did yield,
But with his utmost industry he sought it,
And to the cave for chaste Marina brought it.
So from one well-stor'd garden to another,
To gather simples runs a careful mother,
Whose only child lies on the shaking bed
Grip'd with a fever (sometime honoured
In Rome as if a god), nor is she bent
To other herbs than those for which she went.
The feather'd hours five times were overtold,
And twice as many floods and ebbs had roll'd
The small sands out and in, since fair Marine
(For whose long loss a hundred shepherds pine)
Was by the charitable robin fed:
For whom (had she not so been nourished)
A hundred doves would search the sunburnt hills,
Or fruitful valleys lac'd with silver rills,
To bring her olives. Th' eagle strong of sight
To countries far remote would bend her flight,
And with unwearied wing strip through the sky
To the choice plots of Gaul and Italy,
And never lin till homeward she escape
With the pomegranate, lemon, orange, grape,
Or the lov'd citron, and attain'd the cave.
The well-plum'd goshawk (by th' Egyptians grave
Us'd in their mystic characters for speed)
Would not be wanting at so great a need,
But from the well-stor'd orchards of the land
Brought the sweet pear, once by a cursed hand
At Swinsted us'd with poison for the fall
Of one who on these plains rul'd lord of all.
The scentful osprey by the rock had fish'd,
And many a pretty shrimp in scallops dish'd,
Some way convey'd her; no one of the shoal
That haunt the waves, but from his lurking hole
Had pull'd the crayfish, and with much ado
Brought that the maid, and periwinkles too.
But these for others might their labours spare,
And not with robin for their merits share,
Yet as a herdess in a summer's day,
Heat with the glorious sun's all-purging ray,
In the calm evening, leaving her fair flock,
Betakes herself unto a froth-girt rock,
On which the headlong Tavy throws his waves,
And foams to see the stones neglect his braves:
Where sitting to undo her buskins white,
And wash her neat legs, as her use each night,
Th' enamour'd flood, before she can unlace them,
Rolls up his waves as hast'ning to embrace them,
And though to help them some small gale do blow,
And one of twenty can but reach her so;
Yet will a many little surges be
Flashing upon the rock full busily,
And do the best they can to kiss her feet,
But that their power and will not equal meet:
So as she for her nurse look'd tow'rds the land,
And now beholds the trees that grace the strand,
Then looks upon a hill whose sliding sides
A goodly flock like winter's cov'ring hides,
And higher on some stone that jutteth out,
Their careful master guiding his trim rout
By sending forth his dog as shepherds do,
Or piping sat, or clouting of his shoe;
Whence, nearer hand drawing her wand'ring sight,
So from the earth steals the all-quick'ning light,
Beneath the rock; the waters high, but late,
(I know not by what sluice or empting gate)
Were at a low ebb; on the sand she spies
A busy bird that to and fro still flies,
Till pitching where a heatful oyster lay,
Opening his close jaws, closer none than they
Unless the griping fist, or cherry lips
Of happy lovers in their melting sips,
Since the decreasing waves had left him there
Gaping for thirst, yet meets with nought but air,
And that so hot, ere the returning tide,
He in his shell is likely to be fried;
The wary bird a pretty pebble takes
And claps it 'twixt the two pearl-hiding flakes
Of the broad-yawning oyster, and she then
Securely picks the fish out (as some men
A trick of policy thrust 'tween two friends,
Sever their powers), and his intention ends.
The bird thus getting that for which she strove,
Brought it to her: to whom the Queen of Love
Serv'd as a foil, and Cupid could no other,
But fly to her mistaken for his mother.
Marina from the kind bird took the meat,
And (looking down) she saw a number great
Of birds, each one a pebble in his bill,
Would do the like, but that they wanted skill:
Some threw it in too far, and some too short;
This could not bear a stone fit for such sport,
But, harmless wretch, putting in one too small,
The oyster shuts and takes his head withal.
Another bringing one too smooth and round,
(Unhappy bird that thine own death hast found)
Lays it so little way in his hard lips,
That with their sudden close, the pebble slips
So strongly forth (as when your little ones
Do 'twixt their fingers slip their cherry-stones),
That it in passage meets the breast or head
Of the poor wretch, and lays him there for dead.
A many striv'd, and gladly would have done
As much or more than he which first begun,
But all in vain: scarce one of twenty could
Perform the deed, which they full gladly would.
For this not quick is to that act he go'th,
That wanteth skill, this cunning, and some both:
Yet none a will, for from the cave she sees
Not in all-lovely May th' industrious bees
More busy with the flowers could be, than these
Among the shell-fish of the working seas.