For even their heavie song would breede delight:
But here no tunes, save sobs and grones, shall ring.
In stead of them and their sweet harmonie, 15
Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad hands
Doo weave the direfull threds of destinie,
And in their wrath breake off the vitall bands,
Approach hereto: and let the dreadfull queene
Of darkenes deepe come from the Stygian strands, 20
And grisly ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene.
In gloomie evening, when the wearie sun
After his dayes long labour drew to rest,
And sweatie steedes, now having over-run
The compast skie, gan water in the west, 25
I walkt abroade to breath the freshing ayre
In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest
With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.
There came unto my minde a troublous thought,
Which dayly dooth my weaker wit possesse, 30
Ne lets it rest, untill it forth have brought
Her long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse,
Which she conceived hath through meditation
Of this worlds vainnesse and lifes wretchednesse,
That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion. 35
So as I muzed on the miserie
In which men live, and I of many most,
Most miserable man, I did espie
Where towards me a sory wight did cost,
Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray, 40
And Jaakob staffe in hand devoutly crost,
Like to some pilgrim come from farre away.
His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne,
Hong long adowne, and bearde all overgrowne,
That well he seemd to be sum wight forlorne: 45
Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne
As loathing light; and ever as he went,
He sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone,
As if his heart in peeces would have rent.
Approaching nigh, his face I vewed nere, 50
And by the semblant of his countenance
Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,
Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;
Alcyon he, the jollie shepheard swaine,
That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce, 55
And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.
Yet halfe in doubt because of his disguize,
I softlie sayd, ‘Alcyon!’ Therewithall
He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,
Yet stayed not: till I againe did call. 60
Then turning back, he saide with hollow sound,
‘Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,
The wretchedst man that treades this day on ground?’
‘One whome like wofulnesse, impressed deepe,
Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare, 65
And given like cause with thee to waile and weepe:
Griefe findes some ease by him that like does beare.
Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard, stay,’
Quoth I, ‘till thou have to my trustie eare
Committed what thee dooth so ill apay.’ 70
‘Cease, foolish man,’ saide he halfe wrothfully,
‘To seeke to heare that which cannot be told:
For the huge anguish, which dooth multiply
My dying paines, no tongue can well unfold:
Ne doo I care that any should bemone 75
My hard mishap, or any weepe that would,
But seeke alone to weepe, and dye alone.’
‘Then be it so,’ quoth I, ‘that thou art bent
To die alone, unpitied, unplained;
Yet ere thou die, it were convenient 80
To tell the cause which thee theretoo constrained,
Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt,
And say, when thou of none shalt be maintained,
That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt.’
‘Who life dooes loath, and longs to bee unbound 85
From the strong shackles of fraile flesh,’ quoth he,
‘Nought cares at all what they that live on ground
Deeme the occasion of his death to bee:
Rather desires to be forgotten quight,
Than question made of his calamitie; 90
For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light.
‘Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe,
And carest for one that for himselfe cares nought,
(Signe of thy love, though nought for my reliefe:
For my reliefe exceedeth living thought,) 95
I will to thee this heavie case relate.
Then harken well till it to ende be brought,
For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate.
‘Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know)
My little flocke on westerne downes to keepe, 100
Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth flow,
And flowrie bancks with silver liquor steepe:
Nought carde I then for worldly change or chaunce,
For all my joy was on my gentle sheepe,
And to my pype to caroll and to daunce. 105
‘It there befell, as I the fields did range
Fearelesse and free, a faire young Lionesse,
White as the native rose before the chaunge
Which Venus blood did in her leaves impresse,
I spied playing on the grassie playne 110
Her youthfull sports and kindlie wantonnesse,
That did all other beasts in beawtie staine.
‘Much was I moved at so goodly sight,
Whose like before mine eye had seldome seene,
And gan to cast how I her compasse might, 115
And bring to hand, that yet had never beene:
So well I wrought with mildnes and with paine,
That I her caught disporting on the grene,
And brought away fast bound with silver chaine.
‘And afterwards I handled her so fayre, 120
That though by kind shee stout and salvage were,
For being borne an auncient lions haire,
And of the race that all wild beastes do feare,
Yet I her fram’d and wan so to my bent,
That shee became so meeke and milde of cheare 125
As the least lamb in all my flock that went.
‘For shee in field, where ever I did wend,
Would wend with me, and waite by me all day:
And all the night that I in watch did spend,
If cause requir’d, or els in sleepe, if nay, 130
Shee would all night by mee or watch or sleepe;
And evermore when I did sleepe or play,
She of my flock would take full warie keepe.
‘Safe then and safest were my sillie sheepe,
Ne fear’d the wolfe, ne fear’d the wildest beast, 135
All were I drown’d in carelesse quiet deepe:
My lovelie Lionesse without beheast
So carefull was for them and for my good,
That when I waked, neither most nor least
I found miscaried or in plaine or wood. 140
‘Oft did the shepheards, which my hap did heare,
And oft their lasses, which my luck envide,
Daylie resort to me from farre and neare,
To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wide
Were spred abroad; and when her worthinesse 145
Much greater than the rude report they tri’de,
They her did praise, and my good fortune blesse.
‘Long thus I joyed in my happinesse,
And well did hope my joy would have no end:
But oh! fond man! that in worlds ficklenesse 150
Reposedst hope, or weenedst her thy frend
That glories most in mortall
miseries,
And daylie doth her changefull counsels bend,
To make new matter fit for tragedies!
‘For whilest I was thus without dread or dout, 155
A cruell Satyre with his murdrous dart,
Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about,
Gave her the fatall wound of deadly smart,
And reft fro me my sweete companion,
And reft fro me my love, my life, my hart: 160
My Lyonesse (ah, woe is mee!) is gon.
‘Out of the world thus was she reft awaie,
Out of the world, unworthie such a spoyle;
And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray;
Much fitter than the lyon which with toyle 165
Alcides slew, and fixt in firmament:
Her now I seek throughout this earthlie soyle,
And seeking misse, and missing doe lament.’
Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe,
That I for pittie of his heavie plight 170
Could not abstaine mine eyes with teares to steepe:
But when I saw the anguish of his spright
Some deale alaid, I him bespake againe:
‘Certes, Alcyon, painfull is thy plight,
That it in me breeds almost equall paine. 175
‘Yet doth not my dull wit well understand
The riddle of thy loved Lionesse;
For rare it seemes in reason to be skand,
That man, who doth the whole worlds rule possesse,
Should to a beast his noble hart embase, 180
And be the vassall of his vassalesse:
Therefore more plaine aread this doubtfull case.’
Then sighing sore, ‘Daphne thou knewest,’ quoth he;
‘She now is dead’: ne more endured to say,
But fell to ground for great extreamitie; 185
That I, beholding it, with deepe dismay
Was much appald, and lightly him uprearing,
Revoked life, that would have fled away,
All were my self through griefe in deadly drearing.
Then gan I him to comfort all my best, 190
And with milde counsaile strove to mitigate
The stormie passion of his troubled brest:
But he thereby was more empassionate;
As stubborne steed, that is with curb restrained,
Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate; 195
And breaking foorth at last, thus dearnelie plained.
I
‘What man henceforth, that breatheth vitall ayre,
Will honour Heaven, or heavenlie powers adore,
Which so unjustlie doe their judgments share
Mongst earthly wights, as to afflict so sore 200
The innocent as those which do transgresse,
And do not spare the best or fairest more
Than worst or fowlest, but doe both oppresse?
‘If this be right, why did they then create
The world so fayre, sith fairenesse is neglected? 205
Or whie be they themselves immaculate,
If purest things be not by them respected?
She faire, shee pure, most faire, most pure she was,
Yet was by them as thing impure rejected:
Yet shee in purenesse heaven it selfe did pas. 210
‘In purenesse and in all celestiall grace,
That men admire in goodlie womankinde,
She did excell, and seem’d of angels race,
Living on earth like angell new divinde,
Adorn’d with wisedome and with chastitie, 215
And all the dowries of a noble mind,
Which did her beautie much more beautifie.
‘No age hath bred (since fayre Astræa left
The sinfull world) more vertue in a wight,
And when she parted hence, with her she reft 220
Great hope, and robd her race of bountie quight:
Well may the shepheard lasses now lament,
For dubble losse by her hath on them light,
To loose both her and bounties ornament.
‘Ne let Elisa, royall shepheardesse, 225
The praises of my parted love envy,
For she hath praises in all plenteousnesse
Powr’d upon her, like showers of Castaly,
By her own shepheard, Colin her owne shepherd,
That her with heavenly hymnes doth deifie, 230
Of rusticke muse full hardly to be betterd.
‘She is the rose, the glorie of the day,
And mine the primrose in the lowly shade:
Mine? ah, not mine! amisse I mine did say:
Not mine, but His which mine awhile her made: 235
Mine to be His, with Him to live for ay.
O that so faire a flower so soone should fade,
And through untimely tempest fall away!
‘She fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil’st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde, 240
And whil’st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kinde:
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;
She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde:
Weepe, shepheard, weepe, to make my undersong. 245
II
‘What hart so stony hard, but that would weepe,
And poure foorth fountaines of incessant teares?
What Timon, but would let compassion creepe
Into his brest, and pierce his frosen eares?
In stead of teares, whose brackish bitter well 250
I wasted have, my heart blood dropping weares,
To thinke to ground how that faire blossome fell.
‘Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,
Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye, 255
So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,
And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse;
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,
And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
‘Yet ere that life her lodging did forsake, 260
She, all resolv’d and ready to remove,
Calling to me (ay me!) this wise bespake:
“Alcyon! ah, my first and latest love!
Ah! why does my Alcyon weepe and mourne,
And grieve my ghost, that ill mote him behove, 265
As if to me had chanst some evill tourne?
‘“I, since the messenger is come for mee
That summons soules unto the bridale feast
Of his great Lord, must needes depart from thee,
And straight obay his soveraine beheast 270
Why should Alcyon then so sore lament
That I from miserie shall be releast,
And freed from wretched long imprisonment?
‘“Our daies are full of dolor and disease,
Our life afflicted with incessant paine, 275
That nought on earth may lessen or appease.
Why then should I desire here to remaine?
Or why should he that loves me, sorie bee
For my deliverance, or at all complaine
My good to heare, and toward joyes to see? 280
‘“I goe, and long desired have to goe,
I goe with gladnesse to my wished rest,
Whereas no worlds sad care, nor wasting woe,
May come their happie quiet to molest,
But saints and angels in celestiall thrones 285
Eternally Him praise that hath them blest;
There shall I be amongst those blessed ones.
‘“Yet ere I goe, a pledge I leave with thee
Of the late love, the which betwixt us past,
My young Ambrosia; in lieu of mee 290
Love her: so shall our love for ever last.
Thus, deare, adieu! whom I expect ere long.”
/> So having said, away she softly past;
Weepe, shepheard, weepe, to make mine undersong.
III
‘So oft as I record those piercing words, 295
Which yet are deepe engraven in my brest,
And those last deadly accents, which like swords
Did wound my heart and rend my bleeding chest,
With those sweet sugred speaches doo compare
The which my soule first conquerd and possest, 300
The first beginners of my endlesse care;
‘And when those pallid cheekes and ashy hew,
In which sad Death his pourtraicture had writ,
And when those hollow eyes and deadly view,
On which the clowde of ghastly night did sit, 305
I match with that sweet smile and chearfull brow,
Which all the world subdued unto it;
How happie was I then, and wretched now!
‘How happie was I, when I saw her leade
The shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd! 310
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd!
And when she list advance her heavenly voyce,
Both Nimphs and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepheards caused to rejoyce. 315
‘But now, ye shepheard lasses, who shall lead
Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead
That was the lady of your holy dayes?
Let now your blisse be turned into bale, 320
And into plaints convert your joyous playes,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.
‘Let bagpipe never more be heard to shrill,
That may allure the senses to delight;
Ne ever shepheard sound his oaten quill 325
Unto the many, that provoke them might
To idle pleasance: but let ghastlinesse
And drery horror dim the chearfull light,
To make the image of true heavinesse.
‘Let birds be silent on the naked spray, 330
And shady woods resound with dreadfull yells;
Let streaming floods their hastie courses stay,
And parching drougth drie up the christall wells;
Let th’ earth be barren, and bring foorth no flowres,
And th’ ayre be fild with noyse of dolefull knells, 335
And wandring spirits walke untimely howres.
‘And Nature, nurse of every living thing,
Let rest her selfe from her long wearinesse,
And cease henceforth things kindly forth to bring,
But hideous monsters full of uglinesse; 340
For she it is that hath me done this wrong;
No nurse, but stepdame cruell mercilesse.
Weepe, shepheard, weepe, to make my undersong.
Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 143
