The Shepherd's Garden By William Davies |
 |
THE SHEPHERD UNDER THE FIGURE OF A FAIR MISTRESS
PRAISES DIVINE PHILOSOPHY. |
 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
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THE SHEPHERD UNDER THE FIGURE OF A FAIR MISTRESS PRAISES DIVINE PHILOSOPHY.
Shepherd swains whose pipes do please
Charms of your fair mistresses;
Sylvan, rustic, nymph and faun;
You who nimbly trip the lawn,
Your soft sports awhile forbear,
Whilst I fill the ravished air
With the praise of one I know,
Fairest of all fairs below,
Which I now set forth to tell;
Though I know, and know full well,
That no pipe of mortal touch,
Howsoever sweet; nor such
Music fell from Orpheus' strings,
When he charmed all mortal things;
Nor Apollo's trembling wire,
Thrilled with fine electric fire;
Nor the nightingale at night,
Singing in her love's despite;
Nor the wind that shakes the trees
In embowered Hesperides;
Nor low voice of Siren's tongue,
When she to Ulysses sung;
No, nor anything at all,
Her full sweetness may recall,
Or her high perfections tell,
Whom I do esteem so well.
Charms of your fair mistresses;
Sylvan, rustic, nymph and faun;
You who nimbly trip the lawn,
Your soft sports awhile forbear,
Whilst I fill the ravished air
With the praise of one I know,
Fairest of all fairs below,
Which I now set forth to tell;
Though I know, and know full well,
That no pipe of mortal touch,
Howsoever sweet; nor such
Music fell from Orpheus' strings,
When he charmed all mortal things;
Nor Apollo's trembling wire,
Thrilled with fine electric fire;
Nor the nightingale at night,
Singing in her love's despite;
Nor the wind that shakes the trees
In embowered Hesperides;
Nor low voice of Siren's tongue,
When she to Ulysses sung;
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Her full sweetness may recall,
Or her high perfections tell,
Whom I do esteem so well.
Yet I will not do her wrong,
Though I lose my name in song,
To forego her praises, when
Less are sung of other men.
He who to the sun would fly,
If he may not reach so high,
Other ventures shall outgo
Which do only aim more low—
Though he partly waste his pain,
Nor can master every grain,
Who would grasp the fleeting sand,
Something stays within his hand:
So my verse, however weak
Her unbounded grace to speak,
Gives me safely to infer
Somewhat may be sung of her.
Though I lose my name in song,
To forego her praises, when
Less are sung of other men.
He who to the sun would fly,
If he may not reach so high,
Other ventures shall outgo
Which do only aim more low—
Though he partly waste his pain,
Nor can master every grain,
Who would grasp the fleeting sand,
Something stays within his hand:
So my verse, however weak
Her unbounded grace to speak,
Gives me safely to infer
Somewhat may be sung of her.
If you know what 'tis to be
Kissed by blossoms from the tree
When warm June doth throw them down
From the branch where they have grown,
Whilst the gurgling throstles sing
Through the stems at evening,
And a little breeze or so
Lightly thro' the leaves doth go,
You may partly tell, 'tis true,
What a softened touch can do,
Proving, whilst the cool dew slips,
Honeyed taste of dryad lips;
Yet from that to think you are
Of her daintiness aware,
Or therefore can understand
Silken fall of her soft hand,
Would but lead fair truth astray
From the straightness of his way,
Seeing that her gentle ways
Are beyond the reach of praise.
Kissed by blossoms from the tree
When warm June doth throw them down
From the branch where they have grown,
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Through the stems at evening,
And a little breeze or so
Lightly thro' the leaves doth go,
You may partly tell, 'tis true,
What a softened touch can do,
Proving, whilst the cool dew slips,
Honeyed taste of dryad lips;
Yet from that to think you are
Of her daintiness aware,
Or therefore can understand
Silken fall of her soft hand,
Would but lead fair truth astray
From the straightness of his way,
Seeing that her gentle ways
Are beyond the reach of praise.
Should ye tell me what delights
Linger out on moonlit nights,
When fond lovers wander where
Sugared murmurs fill the air,
And the stars that o'er them glisten
Stoop their shining heads to listen,
Grottoed brooks and bending trees
Charged with their felicities;
Or if you would bid me lean
Where a river flows between
Sloping banks of velvet grass
Whilst a snow-white swan doth pass
Singing as he floats along
With a flute-like undersong
(Water-lilies round him blown)
Till the wave doth suck him down;
Or if you will tell me what
Happy thoughts were those that brought
Cupid to his Psyche's door
When she dwelt on Love's own shore,
Or what words were those he said
As he kissed her golden head,
And the world itself stood still
Whispered love might breathe his fill:—
These beside the joys I speak,
Are but languid, faint and weak;
Customs half foregone in using;
Faded toys of Time's abusing;
Shrivelled lilies; last year's leaves;
Roses chill October grieves;
Clouds of winters vanished; snow
Filled the fields of long ago;
Sickly pleasures overripe;
Music of a broken pipe;
Errant cheats for which we moan,
Melted, faded, withered, gone.
Linger out on moonlit nights,
When fond lovers wander where
Sugared murmurs fill the air,
And the stars that o'er them glisten
Stoop their shining heads to listen,
Grottoed brooks and bending trees
Charged with their felicities;
Or if you would bid me lean
Where a river flows between
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Whilst a snow-white swan doth pass
Singing as he floats along
With a flute-like undersong
(Water-lilies round him blown)
Till the wave doth suck him down;
Or if you will tell me what
Happy thoughts were those that brought
Cupid to his Psyche's door
When she dwelt on Love's own shore,
Or what words were those he said
As he kissed her golden head,
And the world itself stood still
Whispered love might breathe his fill:—
These beside the joys I speak,
Are but languid, faint and weak;
Customs half foregone in using;
Faded toys of Time's abusing;
Shrivelled lilies; last year's leaves;
Roses chill October grieves;
Clouds of winters vanished; snow
Filled the fields of long ago;
Sickly pleasures overripe;
Music of a broken pipe;
Errant cheats for which we moan,
Melted, faded, withered, gone.
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But the feasts which she doth bring
Ever from pure nectar's spring,
In their wealth perpetual,
Cannot ever cloy or pall,
Filling with enlarged delights
Those diviner appetites
Which immortal souls do prove
Yearning for celestial Love,
Whose uplifted brows and eyes,
Tenants of the topmost skies,
Bring such glory to us down,
Earth would seem to heaven have grown.
Ever from pure nectar's spring,
In their wealth perpetual,
Cannot ever cloy or pall,
Filling with enlarged delights
Those diviner appetites
Which immortal souls do prove
Yearning for celestial Love,
Whose uplifted brows and eyes,
Tenants of the topmost skies,
Bring such glory to us down,
Earth would seem to heaven have grown.
Vain it were to touch her worth,
Setting her fair features forth;
Much less her least virtue show
By the tying of a bow,
Or her comeliness express
In the folding of a dress,
Since these scarcely symbolize
Half the worth that in her lies;
Yet I will not stay my verse
From these poor delights of hers,
Made more glorious to the sight
By bright beams of inward light,
Whose clear shafts of heavenly hues
All those others interfuse.
Setting her fair features forth;
Much less her least virtue show
By the tying of a bow,
Or her comeliness express
In the folding of a dress,
Since these scarcely symbolize
Half the worth that in her lies;
Yet I will not stay my verse
From these poor delights of hers,
Made more glorious to the sight
By bright beams of inward light,
Whose clear shafts of heavenly hues
All those others interfuse.
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She hath a form full lithe and trim,
Seemly shape and perfect limb,
Dainty lips a little red,
As the rose on them had bled,
Pouting from its thorny tree
At the biting of a bee;
Eyes so bright, that they do bring
Sunny messages to spring;
Hands so perfect in their making
Reach a favour in the taking:
So each well-proportioned grace
Strives the other to outface,
Baffled judgment doth protest
That the latest seen is best,
And confesses her to be
Nature's last epitome.
Might you but these wonders view
By a little glimpse or two,
You would say, and well you might,
Whatsoever of delight
Brought you once the name of bliss,
Was but type and show of this:
For all other joys that are,
Howsoever good or fair,
By her light must quickly own
Touch of some defection,
And be fain to hie them hence,
Stained by her clear excellence.
Seemly shape and perfect limb,
Dainty lips a little red,
As the rose on them had bled,
Pouting from its thorny tree
At the biting of a bee;
Eyes so bright, that they do bring
Sunny messages to spring;
Hands so perfect in their making
Reach a favour in the taking:
So each well-proportioned grace
Strives the other to outface,
Baffled judgment doth protest
That the latest seen is best,
And confesses her to be
Nature's last epitome.
Might you but these wonders view
By a little glimpse or two,
You would say, and well you might,
Whatsoever of delight
Brought you once the name of bliss,
Was but type and show of this:
For all other joys that are,
Howsoever good or fair,
By her light must quickly own
Touch of some defection,
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Stained by her clear excellence.
Though you use the stars at night
To set forth the lovely sight,
Or the flower that brings the day,
When each bird begins his lay,
To make good the joys that lie
In the bounty of her eye,
Yet you shall not know what grace
Meets within her sweet-like face,
Index of a soul so pure
Hope doth fix and sorrow cure;
No, nor yet from these be able
To discern how comfortable
Is the counsel she doth give
To those souls with her do live,
Raising them from earthly things
To the noble rank of kings.
To set forth the lovely sight,
Or the flower that brings the day,
When each bird begins his lay,
To make good the joys that lie
In the bounty of her eye,
Yet you shall not know what grace
Meets within her sweet-like face,
Index of a soul so pure
Hope doth fix and sorrow cure;
No, nor yet from these be able
To discern how comfortable
Is the counsel she doth give
To those souls with her do live,
Raising them from earthly things
To the noble rank of kings.
Many a time when I was young,
Fields of blossoms I have sung;
Hawthorn garlands perfuming
Green hedgerows at touch of spring;
Meadows filled with scented hay;
Pleasures of a summer's day;
Nooks of hazel; banks of fern;
Grassy ways that wind and turn;
Airy sweeps the swallow makes
Skimming o'er smooth-bosomed lakes;
Movements of the silvery swan
Leda loved to look upon,
Till his daring bolder grown,
Fired her passion with his own;
Ancient woods whose twilight halls
Echo with white waterfalls;
Russet orchards fruited ripe;
Mellow strains of shepherd's pipe;
Breezy hollows starr'd with flowers;
Country pastimes in the bowers;
Maiden charms so very fair
Might with goddesses compare:—
Yet I now protest that these,
In her absence fail to please,
Nor my soul to rapture move,
If she do withhold her love.
Fields of blossoms I have sung;
Hawthorn garlands perfuming
Green hedgerows at touch of spring;
Meadows filled with scented hay;
Pleasures of a summer's day;
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Grassy ways that wind and turn;
Airy sweeps the swallow makes
Skimming o'er smooth-bosomed lakes;
Movements of the silvery swan
Leda loved to look upon,
Till his daring bolder grown,
Fired her passion with his own;
Ancient woods whose twilight halls
Echo with white waterfalls;
Russet orchards fruited ripe;
Mellow strains of shepherd's pipe;
Breezy hollows starr'd with flowers;
Country pastimes in the bowers;
Maiden charms so very fair
Might with goddesses compare:—
Yet I now protest that these,
In her absence fail to please,
Nor my soul to rapture move,
If she do withhold her love.
Shepherds in these mountains born,
Take my song at earliest morn,
When the stretchèd daylight lingers
Longest for sweet summer singers:
Chant it to the swelling hills;
Chant it to the lapsing rills;
Chant it in those aisles of green
Forest stems do show between;
Chant it to the flowers that close
When the ruddy evening goes:
So when as the stars do glisten,
If thereto my lady listen,
I shall not desire to wear
Other laurels, or to share
Honours more than she doth bring
To my numbers whilst I sing,
Or the fruit Alcides won
In those gardens of the sun,
Or the fleece of beaten gold
Jason stole from Colchis old:
For her love to me doth crown
More than titled monarch's own,
Who all worldly worth doth praise
With the wonder of her ways.
Take my song at earliest morn,
When the stretchèd daylight lingers
Longest for sweet summer singers:
Chant it to the swelling hills;
Chant it to the lapsing rills;
129
Forest stems do show between;
Chant it to the flowers that close
When the ruddy evening goes:
So when as the stars do glisten,
If thereto my lady listen,
I shall not desire to wear
Other laurels, or to share
Honours more than she doth bring
To my numbers whilst I sing,
Or the fruit Alcides won
In those gardens of the sun,
Or the fleece of beaten gold
Jason stole from Colchis old:
For her love to me doth crown
More than titled monarch's own,
Who all worldly worth doth praise
With the wonder of her ways.
Therefore, shepherds, celebrate
This my Lady's lofty state,
Till the tongues of men declare
Never one was made so fair,
Or so worthy to have been
Honoured by the name of Queen.
This my Lady's lofty state,
Till the tongues of men declare
Never one was made so fair,
Or so worthy to have been
Honoured by the name of Queen.
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