Classic Poem

More she had spoke, but that the gallant flood
Replied: ye wanton rangers of the wood,
Leave your allurements; hie ye to your chase;
See where Diana with a nimble pace
Follows a struck deer; if you longer stay
Her frown will bend to me another day.
Hark how she winds her horn; she some doth call,
Perhaps for you, to make into the fall.
With this they left him. Now he wonders much
Why at this time his Walla's stay was such,
And could have wish'd the nymphs back, but for fear
His love might come and chance to find them there.
To pass the time at last he thus began
(Unto a pipe join'd by the art of Pan)
To praise his love: his hasty waves among
The frothed rocks, bearing the under-song:

As careful merchants do expecting stand,
After long time and merry gales of wind,
Upon the place where their brave ship must land:
So wait I for the vessel of my mind.

Upon a great adventure is it bound,
Whose safe return will valu'd be at more
Than all the wealthy prizes which have crown'd
The golden wishes of an age before.

Out of the East jewels of worth she brings;
Th' unvalu'd diamond of her sparkling eye
Wants in the treasures of all Europe's kings;
And were it mine they nor their crowns should buy.

The sapphires ringed on her panting breast
Run as rich veins of ore about the mould,
And are in sickness with a pale possess'd,
So true; for them I should disvalue gold.

The melting rubies on her cherry lip
Are of such power to hold, that as one day
Cupid flew thirsty by, he stoop'd to sip,
And fasten'd there could never get away.

The sweets of Candy are no sweets to me
When hers I taste; nor the perfumes of price
Robb'd from the happy shrubs of Araby,
As her sweet breath, so powerful to entice.

O hasten then! and if thou be not gone
Unto that wished traffic through the main,
My powerful sighs shall quickly drive thee on,
And then begin to draw thee back again.

If in the mean rude waves have it oppress'd,
It shall suffice I ventur'd at the best.

Scarce had he given a period to his lay
When from a wood (wherein the eye of day
Had long a stranger been, and Phœbe's light
Vainly contended with the shades of night,)
One of those wanton nymphs that woo'd him late
Came crying tow'rds him; O thou most ingrate,
Respectless flood! canst thou here idly sit,
And loose desires to looser numbers fit?
Teaching the air to court thy careless brook,
Whilst thy poor Walla's cries the hills have shook
With an amazed terror: hear! O hear!
A hundred echoes shrieking everywhere!
See how the frightful herds run from the wood!
Walla, alas! as she, to crown her flood,
Attended the composure of sweet flowers,
Was by a lust-fir'd satyr 'mong our bowers
Well-near surpris'd, but that she him descri'd
Before his rude embracement could betide.
Now but her feet no help, unless her cries
A needful aid draw from the deities.
It needless was to bid the flood pursue:
Anger gave wings; ways that he never knew
Till now, he treads; through dells and hidden brakes
Flies through the meadows, each where overtakes
Streams swiftly gliding, and them brings along
To further just revenge for so great wrong,
His current till that day was never known,
But as a mead in July, which unmown
Bears in an equal height each bent and stem,
Unless some gentle gale do play with them,
Now runs it with such fury and such rage,
That mighty rocks opposing vassalage
Are from the firm earth rent and overborne
In fords where pebbles lay secure beforn.
Lo'd cataracts, and fearful roarings now
Affright the passenger; upon his brow
Continual bubbles like compelled drops,
And where (as now and then) he makes short stops
In little pools drowning his voice too high,
'Tis where he thinks he hears his Walla cry.
Yet vain was all his haste, bending away,
Too much declining to the Southern Sea,
Since she had turned thence, and now begun
To cross the brave path of the glorious sun.
There lies a vale extended to the north
Of Tavy's stream, which (prodigal) sends forth
In autumn more rare fruits than have been spent
In any greater plot of fruitful Kent.
Two high-brow'd rocks on either side begin,
As with an arch to close the valley in:
Upon their rugged fronts short writhen oaks
Untouch'd of any feller's baneful strokes:
The ivy twisting round their barks hath fed
Past time wild goats which no man followed.
Low in the valley some small herds of deer,
For head and footmanship withouten peer,
Fed undisturb'd. The swains that thereby thriv'd
By the tradition from their sires deriv'd,
Call'd it sweet Ina's Coombe: but whether she
Were of the earth or greater progeny,
Judge by her deeds; once this is truly known
She many a time hath on a bugle blown,
And through the dale pursu'd the jolly chase,
As she had bid the winged winds a base.
Pale and distracted hither Walla runs,
As closely follow'd as she hardly shuns;
Her mantle off, her hair now too unkind
Almost betray'd her with the wanton wind.
Breathless and faint she now some drops discloses,
As in a limbeck the kind sweat of roses,
Such hang upon her breast, and on her cheeks;
Or like the pearls which the tann'd Æthiop seeks.
The satyr (spurr'd with lust) still getteth ground,
And longs to see his damn'd intention crown'd.
As when a greyhound of the rightest strain
Let slip to some poor hare upon the plain,
He for his prey strives, th' other for her life,
And one of these or none must end the strife;
Now seems the dog by speed and good at bearing
To have her sure; the other ever fearing
Maketh a sudden turn, and doth defer
The hound a while from so near reaching her:
Yet being fetch'd again and almost ta'en,
Doubting (since touch'd of him) she 'scapes her bane:
So of these two the minded races were,
For hope the one made swift, the other fear.
O if there be a power (quoth Walla then,
Keeping her earnest course) o'erswaying men
And their desires! O let it now be shown
Upon this satyr half part earthly known.
What I have hitherto with so much care
Kept undefiled, spotless, white and fair,
What in all speech of love I still reserv'd,
And from its hazard ever gladly swerv'd;
O be it now untouch'd! and may no force
That happy jewel from myself divorce!
I that have ever held all women be
Void of all worth if wanting chastily;
And whoso any lets that best flower pull,
She might be fair, but never beautiful:
O let me not forgo it! strike me dead!
Let on these rocks my limbs be scattered!
Burn me to ashes with some powerful flame,
And in mine own dust bury mine own name,
Rather than let me live and be defil'd.