Classic Poem

Under the hollow hanging of this hill
There was a cave cut out by Nature's skill:
Or else it seem'd the mount did open's breast,
That all might see what thoughts he there possess'd.
Whose gloomy entrance was environ'd round
With shrubs that cloy ill husbands' meadow-ground:
The thick-grown hawthorn and the binding briar,
The holly that out-dares cold winter's ire:
Who all entwin'd, each limb with limb did deal,
That scarce a glimpse of light could inward steal.
An uncouth place, fit for an uncouth mind,
That is as heavy as that cave is blind.
Here liv'd a man his hoary hairs call'd old,
Upon whose front time many years had told;
Who, since Dame Nature in him feeble grew,
And he unapt to give the world ought new.
The secret power of herbs that grow on mould,
Sought out, to cherish and relieve the old.
Hither Marinda all in haste came running,
And with her tears desir'd the old man's cunning;
When this good man (as goodness still is prest
At all assays to help a wight distress'd)
As glad and willing was to ease her son,
As she would ever joy to see it done;
And giving her a salve in leaves up-bound,
And she directed how to cure the wound,
With thanks, made homewards (longing still to see
Th' effect of this good hermit's surgery).
There carefully, her son laid on a bed
(Enriched with the blood he on it shed),
She washes, dresses, binds his wound (yet sore)
That griev'd it could weep blood for him no more.
Now had the glorious sun ta'en up his inn,
And all the lamps of heav'n enlighten'd been;
Within the gloomy shades of some thick spring
Sad Philomel 'gan on the hawthorn sing
(Whilst every beast at rest was lowly laid),
The outrage done upon a silly maid.
All things were hush'd; each bird slept on his bough;
And night gave rest to him day tir'd at plough;
Each beast, each bird, and each day-toiling wight
Receiv'd the comfort of the silent night;
Free from the gripes of sorrow every one.
Except poor Philomel and Doridon;
She on a thorn sings sweet though sighing strains;
He on a couch more soft, more sad complains;
Whose in-pent thoughts him long time having pain'd,
He sighing, wept, and weeping thus complain'd:
Sweet Philomela (then he heard her sing),
I do not envy thy sweet carolling,
But do admire thee that each even and morrow
Canst carelessly thus sing away thy sorrow.
Would I could do so too! and ever be
In all my woes still imitating thee:
But I may not attain to that, for then
Such most unhappy, miserable men
Would strive with Heaven, and imitate the sun,
Whose golden beams in exhalation,
Though drawn from fens, or other grounds impure,
Turn all to fructifying nouriture;
When we draw nothing by our sun-like eyes,
That ever turns to mirth, but miseries.
Would I had never seen, except that she
Who made me wish so, love to look on me.
Had Colin Clout yet liv'd (but he is gone),
That best on earth could tune a lover's moan,
Whose sadder tones enforc'd the rocks to weep,
And laid the greatest griefs in quiet sleep:
Who when he sung (as I would do to mine)
His truest loves to his fair Rosaline,
Entic'd each shepherd's ear to hear him play,
And rapt with wonder, thus admiring say:
Thrice happy plains (if plains thrice happy may be)
Where such a shepherd pipes to such a lady.
Who made the lasses long to sit down near him;
And woo'd the rivers from their springs to hear him.
Heaven rest thy soul (if so a swain may pray)
And as thy works live here, live there for aye.
Meanwhile (unhappy) I shall still complain
Love's cruel wounding of a seely swain.
Two nights thus pass'd: the lily-handed Morn
Saw Phaebus stealing dew from Ceres corn.
The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,
Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.
The lofty treble sung the little wren;
Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;
The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush
The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.
And that the music might be full in parts,
Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;
But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,
Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)
There should some droning part be, therefore will'd
Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,
In embassy unto the King of Bees,
To aid his partners on the flowers and trees
Who, condescending, gladly flew along
To bear the bass to his well-tuned song.
The crow was willing they should be beholding
For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,
He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,
And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.