Anonymous

Beowulf (ll. 736–90)

Modern English version by Seamus Heaney

Mighty and canny,

Hygelac’s kinsman was keenly watching

for the first move the monster would make.

Nor did the creature keep him waiting

but struck suddenly and started in;

he grabbed and mauled a man on his bench,

bit into his bone-lappings, bolted down his blood

and gorged on him in lumps, leaving the body

utterly lifeless, eaten up

hand and foot. Venturing closer,

his talon was raised to attack Beowulf

where he lay on the bed, he was bearing in

with open claw when the alert hero’s

comeback and armlock forestalled him utterly.

The captain of evil discovered himself

in a handgrip harder than anything

he had ever encountered in any man

on the face of the earth. Every bone in his body

quailed and recoiled, but he could not escape.

He was desperate to flee to his den and hide

with the devil’s litter, for in all his days

he had never been clamped or cornered like this.

Then Hygelac’s trusty retainer recalled

his bedtime speech, sprang to his feet

and got a firm hold. Fingers were bursting,

the monster back-tracking, the man overpowering.

The dread of the land was desperate to escape,

to take a roundabout road and flee

to his lair in the fens. The latching power

in his fingers weakened; it was the worst trip

the terror-monger had taken to Heorot.

And now the timbers trembled and sang,

a hall-session that harrowed every Dane

inside the stockade: stumbling in fury,

the two contenders crashed through the building.

The hall clattered and hammered, but somehow

survived the onslaught and kept standing:

it was handsomely structured, a sturdy frame

braced with the best of blacksmith’s work

inside and out. The story goes

that as the pair struggled, mead-benches were smashed

and sprung off the floor, gold fittings and all.

Before then, no Shielding elder would believe

there was any power or person upon earth

capable of wrecking their horn-rigged hall

unless the burning embrace of a fire

engulf it in flame. Then an extraordinary

wail arose, and bewildering fear

came over the Danes. Everyone felt it

who heard that cry as it echoed off the wall,

a God-cursed scream and strain of catastrophe,

the howl of the loser, the lament of the hell-serf

keening his wound. He was overwhelmed,

manacled tight by the man who of all men

was foremost and strongest in the days of this life.

The Gawain Poet

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (ll. 713–39)

Mony klyf he ouerclambe in contrayez straunge,

Fer floten fro his frendez fremedly he rydez.

At vche warþe oþer water þer þe wy3e passed

He fonde a foo hym byfore bot ferly hit were,

And þat so foule and so felle þat fe3t hym byhode.

So mony meruayl bi mount þer þe mon fyndez,

Hit were to tore for to telle of þe tenþe dole.

Sumwhyle wyth wormez he werrez and with wolues als,

Sumwhyle wyth wodwos þat woned in þe knarrez,

Boþe wyth bullez and berez and borez oþerquyle,

And etaynez þat hym anelede of þe he3e felle;

Nade he ben du3ty and dry3e and dry3tyn had serued,

Douteles he hade ben ded and dreped ful ofte.

For werre wrathed hym not so much þat wynter was wors,

When þe colde cler water fro þe cloudez schadden,

And fres er hit falle my3t to þe fale erþe;

Ner slayn wyth þe slete he sleped in his yrnes

Mo ny3tez þen innoghe in naked rokkez,

Þer as claterande fro þe crest þe colde borne rennez,

And henged he3e ouer his hede in hard ysse ikkles.

Þus in peryl and payne and plytes ful harde

Bi contray cayrez þis kny3t tyl krystmasse euen,

Al one;

Be kny3t wel þat tyde

To mary made his mone,

Þat ho hym red to ryde

And wysse hym to sum wone.

 

Modern English version by Simon Armitage

 

In a strange region he scales steep slopes;

far from his friends he cuts a lonely figure.

Where he bridges a brook or wades through a waterway

ill fortune brings him face to face with a foe

so foul or fierce he is bound to use force.

So momentous are his travels among the mountains

to tell just a tenth would be a tall order.

Here he scraps with serpents and snarling wolves,

here he tangles with wodwos causing trouble in the crags,

or with bulls and bears and the odd wild boar.

Hard on his heels through the highlands come giants.

Only diligence and faith in the face of death

will keep him from becoming a corpse or carrion.

And the wars were one thing, but winter was worse:

clouds shed their cargo of crystallized rain

which froze as it fell to the frost-glazed earth.

With nerves frozen numb he napped in his armour,

bivouacked in the blackness amongst bare rocks

where melt-water streamed from the snow-capped summits

and high overhead hung chandeliers of ice.

So in peril and pain Sir Gawain made progress,

criss-crossing the countryside until Christmas

Eve. Then

at that time of tiding,

he prayed to highest heaven.

Let Mother Mary guide him

towards some house or haven.

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Wife of Bath (ll. 445–76)

(from The General Prologue)

A GOOD WIF was ther of biside BATHE,

But she was somdel deef and that was scathe.

Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt,

She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt.

In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon

That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon,

And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she,

That she was out of alle charitee.

Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground, –

I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound, –

That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed.

Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed

Ful streite yteyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe.

Boold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe.

She was a worthy womman al hir lyve:

Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve,

Withouten oother compaignye in youthe, –

But therof nedeth nat to speke as nowthe.

And thries hadde she been at Jerusalem;

She hadde passed many a straunge strem;

At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne,

In Galice at Seint-Jame, and at Coloigne,

She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye.

Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye.

Upon an amblere esily she sat,

Y-wympled wel, and on hir heed an hat

As brood as is a bokeler or a targe;

A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large,

And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe.

In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe.

Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce,

For she koude of that art the olde daunce.

Anonymous

‘I syng of a mayden’

I syng of a mayden

That is makeles:

King of alle kinges

to here sone che chees.

 

He cam also stille

Ther his moder was

As dew in Aprylle,

That fallyt on the gras.

 

He cam also stille

To his modres bowr

As dew in Aprylle,

That falleth on the flowr.

 

He cam also stille

Ther his moder lay

As dew in Aprylle,

That falleth on the spray.

 

Moder and mayden

Was nevere noon but she:

Well may swich a lady

Godes moder be.

 

Modern English version by David Breeden

 

I sing of a maiden

That is matchless,

King of all kings

For her son she chose.

 

He came as still

Where his mother was

As dew in April

That falls on the grass.

 

He came as still

To his mother’s bower

As dew in April

That falls on the flower.

 

He came as still

Where his mother lay

As dew in April

That falls on the spray.

 

Mother and maiden

There was never, ever one but she;

Well may such a lady

God’s mother be.

Thomas Wyatt

‘They flee from me that sometime did me seek’

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.

I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild and do not remember

That sometime they put themselves in danger

To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

Busily seeking with a continual change.

 

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise

Twenty times better; but once in special,

In thin array after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small;

Therewithall sweetly did me kiss,

And softly said, ‘Dear heart, how like you this?’

 

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.

But all is turned thorough my gentleness

Into a strange fashion of forsaking;

And I have leave to go of her goodness,

And she also to use newfangleness.

But since that I so kindly am served,

I would fain know what she hath deserved.

Philip Sidney

Song from Arcadia

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a better bargain driven.

 

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

 

His heart his wound received from my sight;

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

For as from me on him his hurt did light,

So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:

 

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true-love hath my heart and I have his.

Christopher Marlowe

‘In summer’s heat, and mid-time of the day’

(after Ovid, Amores, Book 1, Poem 5)

In summer’s heat, and mid-time of the day,

To rest my limbs, upon a bed I lay,

One window shut the other open stood,

Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood,

Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,

Or night being past, and yet not day begun.

Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown,

Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown.

Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,

Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:

Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed

Or Laïs of a thousand wooers sped.

I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,

Yet strived she to be covered therewithal.

And striving thus as one that would be cast,

Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.

Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,

Not one wen in her body could I spy.

What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,

How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me?

How smooth a belly, under her waist saw I?

How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?

To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,

I clinged her naked body, down she fell,

Judge you the rest: being tired she bade me kiss.

Jove send me more such afternoons as this.

Chidiock Tichborne

Elegy

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain:

The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

 

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told,

My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green,

My youth is spent, and yet I am not old,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

 

I sought my death, and found it in my womb,

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die, and now I was but made;

The glass is full, and now my glass is run,

And now I live, and now my life is done.

John Donne

The Good Morrow

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?

But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?

’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

 

And now good morrow to our waking souls,

Which watch not one another out of fear;

For love, all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere.

Let sea discoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown,

Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

 

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres

Without sharp North, without declining West?

Whatever dies was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

Walter Ralegh

Walsingham

‘As you came from the holy land

Of Walsingham,

Met you not with my true love

By the way as you came?’

 

‘How shall I know your true love,

That have met many a one,

As I went to the holy land,

That have come, that have gone?’

 

‘She is neither white nor brown,

But as the heavens fair;

There is none hath a form so divine

In the earth or the air.’

 

‘Such an one did I meet, good sir,

Such an angelic face,

Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear

By her gait, by her grace.’

 

‘She hath left me here all alone,

All alone, as unknown,

Who sometimes did me lead with herself,

And me loved as her own.’

 

‘What’s the cause that she leaves you alone,

And a new way doth take,

Who loved you once as her own,

And her joy did you make?’

 

‘I have loved her all my youth,

But now old, as you see,

Love likes not the falling fruit

From the withered tree.

 

‘Know that Love is a careless child,

And forgets promise past;

He is blind, he is deaf when he list,

And in faith never fast.

 

‘His desire is a dureless content

And a trustless joy;

He is won with a world of despair

And is lost with a toy.

 

‘Of womenkind such indeed is the love

Or the word love abused,

Under which many childish desires

And conceits are excused.

 

‘But true love is a durable fire,

In the mind ever burning;

Never sick, never old, never dead,

From itself never turning.’

Mary Sidney Herbert

O

Oh, what a lantern, what a lamp of light

Is thy pure word to me

To clear my paths and guide my goings right!

I swore and swear again,

I of the statutes will observer be,

Thou justly dost ordain.

 

The heavy weights of grief oppress me sore:

Lord, raise me by the word,

As thou to me didst promise heretofore.

And this unforced praise

I for an offering bring, accept, O Lord,

And show to me thy ways.

 

What if my life lie naked in my hand,

To every chance exposed!

Should I forget what thou dost me command?

No, no, I will not stray

From thy edicts though round about enclosed

With snares the wicked lay.

 

Thy testimonies as mine heritage,

I have retained still:

And unto them my heart’s delight engage,

My heart which still doth bend,

And only bend to do what thou dost will,

And do it to the end.

Robert Southwell

The Burning Babe

As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,

A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;

Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed

As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.

‘Alas!’ quoth he, ‘but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I.

My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,

The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,

For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.’

With this he vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas day.

Edmund Spenser

‘So oft as I her beauty do behold’

(Amoretti, LV)

 

So oft as I her beauty do behold,

And therewith do her cruelty compare,

I marvel of what substance was the mould

The which her made at once so cruel-fair.

Not earth; for her high thoughts more heavenly are:

Not water; for her love doth burn like fire:

Not air; for she is not so light or rare:

Not fire; for she doth freeze with faint desire.

 

Then needs another element inquire

Whereof she might be made; that is, the sky.

For to the heaven her haughty looks aspire,

And eke her mind is pure immortal high.

Then, sith to heaven ye likened are the best,

Be like in mercy as in all the rest.

William Shakespeare

‘When that I was and a little tiny boy’

(from Twelfth Night)

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came to man’s estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came, alas! to wive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

With toss-pots still had drunken heads,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

Ben Jonson

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent’st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

George Herbert

Love

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

If I lacked anything.

 

‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here.’

Love said, ‘You shall be he.’

‘I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.’

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

‘Who made the eyes but I?’

 

‘Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.’

‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’

‘My dear, then I will serve.’

‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat:’

So I did sit and eat.

Richard Lovelace

To Althea from Prison

When Love with unconfined wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,

The Gods that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

 

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,

Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

 

When like committed linnets, I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.

 

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

Robert Herrick

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

 

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

 

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry.

Andrew Marvell

Bermudas

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean’s bosom unespied,

From a small boat that rowed along,

The listening winds received this song:

‘What should we do but sing His praise

That led us through the watery maze

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

Where He the huge sea monsters wracks,

That lift the deep upon their backs.

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms and prelate’s rage.

He gave us this eternal Spring

Which here enamels every thing,

And sends the fowls to us in care,

On daily visits through the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,

Like golden lamps in a green night;

And does in the pomegranates close

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet

And throws the melons at our feet;

But apples plants of such a price,

No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars, chosen by His hand,

From Lebanon, He stores the land,

And makes the hollow seas that roar

Proclaim the ambergris on shore.

He cast (of which we rather boast)

The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,

And in these rocks for us did frame

A temple, where to sound His name.

Oh let our voice His praise exalt,

Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault;

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.’

Thus sung they in the English boat

An holy and a cheerful note,

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

Katherine Philips

Epitaph

(On her son H.P. at St Syth’s Church where her body also lies interred.)

What on Earth deserves our trust?

Youth and beauty both are dust.

Long we gathering are with pain,

What one moment calls again.

Seven years childless marriage past,

A son, a son is born at last:

So exactly limbed and fair,

Full of good spirits, mien, and air,

As a long life promised,

Yet, in less than six weeks dead.

Too promising, too great a mind

In so small room to be confined:

Therefore, as fit in Heaven to dwell,

He quickly broke the prison shell.

So the subtle alchemist,

Can’t with Hermes Seal resist

The powerful spirit’s subtler flight,

But t’will bid him long good night.

And so the sun if it arise

Half so glorious as his eyes,

Like this infant, takes a shroud,

Buried in a morning cloud.

Henry King

An Exequy to His Matchless Never to be Forgotten Friend (ll. 81–120)

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed,

Never to be disquieted!

My last goodnight! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake;

Till age, or grief, or sickness must

Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there, I will not fail

To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay;

I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed

Desire can make, or sorrows breed.

Each minute is a short degree,

And every hour a step towards thee.

At night when I betake to rest,

Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale.

Thus from the sun my bottom steers,

And my day’s compass downward bears;

Nor labour I to stem the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,

Thou like the van first took’st the field,

And gotten hast the victory

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave

A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse like a soft drum

Beats my approach, tells thee I come;

And slow howe’er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,

And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive

The crime) I am content to live

Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

Anne Bradstreet

Verses upon the Burning of Our House

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I wakened was with thundering noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of ‘fire’ and ‘fire,’

Let no man know is my desire.

I, starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

To strengthen me in my distress

And not to leave me succourless.

Then, coming out, behold a space

The flame consume my dwelling place.

And when I could no longer look,

I blest His grace that gave and took,

That laid my goods now in the dust.

Yea, so it was, and so ’twas just.

It was his own; it was not mine.

Far be it that I should repine,

He might of all justly bereft

But yet sufficient for us left.

When by the ruins oft I past

My sorrowing eyes aside did cast

And here and there the places spy

Where oft I sat and long did lie.

Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,

There lay that store I counted best,

My pleasant things in ashes lie

And them behold no more shall I.

Under thy roof no guest shall sit,

Nor at thy table eat a bit.

No pleasant tale shall ’ere be told

Nor things recounted done of old.

No candle e’er shall shine in thee,

Nor bridegroom’s voice e’er heard shall be.

In silence ever shalt thou lie.

Adieu, adieu, all’s vanity.

Then straight I ’gin my heart to chide:

And did thy wealth on earth abide,

Didst fix thy hope on mouldering dust,

The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?

Raise up thy thoughts above the sky

That dunghill mists away may fly.

Thou hast an house on high erect

Framed by that mighty architect,

With glory richly furnished

Stands permanent, though this be fled.

It’s purchased and paid for too

By Him who hath enough to do.

A price so vast as is unknown,

Yet by His gift is made thine own.

There’s wealth enough; I need no more.

Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.

The world no longer let me love;

My hope and treasure lies above.

John Milton

Paradise Lost (Book 1, ll. 242–70)

‘Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,’

Said then the lost archangel, ‘this the seat

That we must change for Heaven, this mournful gloom

For that celestial light? Be it so, since he

Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid

What shall be right: furthest from him is best

Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme

Above his equals. Farewell happy fields

Where joy for ever dwells: hail horrors, hail

Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell

Receive thy new possessor: one who brings

A mind not to be changed by place or time.

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

What matter where, if I be still the same,

And what I should be, all but less than he

Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least

We shall be free; the almighty hath not built

Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:

Here we may reign secure, and in my choice

To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:

Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,

The associates and copartners of our loss

Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,

And call them not to share with us their part

In this unhappy mansion, or once more

With rallied arms to try what may be yet

Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?’

John Dryden

A Song for St Cecilia’s Day (ll. 1–54)

From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began;

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,

‘Arise, ye more than dead!’

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,

In order to their stations leap,

And Music’s power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The diapason closing full in man.

 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

 

The trumpet’s loud clangour

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms,

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, ‘Hark, the foes come;

Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat!’

 

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes, discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

 

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

 

But O, what art can teach,