The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.
1
Looke how the dying swan on Tagus shore,Singing a lullaby to her last sleepe,
Tyes to her golden tongue the leaping ore,
And bindes th' ashamed water nymphs to keepe
Eternall silence, whilst the dumbe waves stay,
And dare not with their murmuring pebles play,
Or through the whistling rushes take their wonted way.
2
Looke how the gentle breath of southerne gales,Buzzing their tunes amongst the querulous reedes,
Or whispering musicke to the sounding vales,
In all the aery nation envy breedes,
And into sleepe the lazy groomes doth rocke,
Or calls th' amazed sheapheard from his flocke,
And prompts the strayning eccho of the neighbouring rocke.
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3
So sate our noble Willy, happy swayne,With peerelesse songs incroaching sorrow drowning,
And Tavyes curled locks (who danc't amaine
Unto his pipe) with bayes immortall crowning,
The whilst the woods their leafy heads inclined,
In listening wise, and mixt their envious winde
With those more heavenly aires which in his voyce they finde.
4
Once when the jolly lad began a lay,Of his Marina's fate, the wondring route
Of neighbouring swaynes, leaving their wonted play,
Ran to incircle their new Pan about,
Where growne forgetful of theire former care,
Although they fed on nought but his sweet ayre,
Vowd that the quintessence of nectar was their fare.
5
And as their captive soules were chained untoThe charming pipe; when they it least suspected,
The smiles and winkes which forth did steale, would show
How much that loved sound they all respected,
And all amased in a deep extasy
Would sweare he was some chorister of the sky,
Or (though their eyes sayd no) Phœbus owne deity.
6
Each peerelesse nymph that baths her dewy curlsIn too too happy Tavyes chrystall waves,
Into the singing ecchoing champion hurles,
And there our Willyes head with flowers embraves,
Robs her own bankes, and decks a coronet
With blushing roses and the violet,
Which on the head of her admired swayne is set.
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7
The merry emulous songsters of the woodIn silence listened to his better song,
And the soft murmurs of the bubbling flood
(Which seemed to laugh as he did ride along)
Presumed to beare the burthen of his lay,
The whilst the jocund satyres all would say
They were not half so blest even on Pan's holyday.
8
But midst these thankful shouts and signes of joy,Whilst all expect to see a happy close,
Upon the sudden starts the peevish boy,
And runs away in haste as from his foes:
Nor can our speaking sighs, and begging teares,
Nor all our prayers and plaints he daily heares,
Or melt his stubborn heart, or banish his vain feares.
9
So, when as Philomel her haplesse fateUnto the tell-tale eccho doth bemoane,
The whilst some envious bough presents in hate
A dagger to her breast, and there is none
That praises not her musicks heavenly grace,
The bashful bird with leaves doth vaile her face,
Or to her shrowd and tombe some thicket, flyes apace.
10
And now he hauntes the woodes and silent groves,(Poore lad) and teaches silence to the windes,
H'as now forgot our sports and harmlesse loves,
Ah can such deeds agree with heavenly mindes;
Great flakes of moss, bred in some silent cave,
Stop his pipes mouth, and now his spirit leave,
Now a dead soule entombed within a living grave.
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11
But Willy boy, let not eternall sleepeCaptive thy sprightly muse; so shall we all
Rejoice at her new life, and henceforth keepe
Unto thy name a yearly festivall;
May shee but impe her wings with thy blest pen,
And take her wonted flight, heaven says Amen,
The musicke of the spheares shall nere be heard agen.
12
So may a sun shine day smile on our sports,So may the pretty lambs live free from harme,
So may the tender lasse that here resorts,
Nere feele the clownish winds cold boisterous arm.
As we do love thee Willy, as we all
Do wistly for thy peereless musick call,
And as we plat for thee a matchlesse coronall.
Perigot.]
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |