There with the heavens, always jovial, Look'd on them lovely, still in stedfast state, Ne suffer'd storm nor frost on them to fall, Their tender buds or leaves to violate; Nor scorching heat, nor cold intemperate, T' afflict the creatures which therein did dwell; But the mild air, with season moderate, Gently attemper'd, and disposed so well, That still it breathed forth sweet spirit and wholesome smell.

More sweet and wholesome than the pleasant hill Of Rhodope, on which the nymph, that bore A giant babe, herself for grief did kill; Or the Thessalian Tempe, where of yore Fair Daphne Phoebus' heart with love did gore; Or Ida, where the gods loved to repair Whenever they their heavenly bowers forlore; Or sweet Parnasse, the haunt of muses fair; Or Eden self, if aught with Eden mote compare.

Much wonder'd Guyon at the fair aspect Of that sweet place, yet suffer'd no delight To sink into his sense, nor mind affect; But passed forth, and look'd still forward right, Bridling his will, and mastering his might, Till that he came unto another gate; No gate, but like one, being goodly dight With boughs and branches, which did broad dilate Their clasping arms, in wanton wreathings intricate.

So fashioned a porch with rare device, Arch'd over head with an embracing vine, Whose bunches hanging down seem'd to entice All passers by to taste their luscious wine, And did themselves into their hands incline, As freely offering to be gathered; Some deep empurpled as the hyacine, Some as the rubine, laughing sweetly red, Some like fair emeraudes not yet well ripened:

And them amongst some were of burnish'd gold,
So made by art to beautify the rest,
Which did themselves amongst the leaves enfold,
As lurking from the view of covetous guest,
That the weak boughs, with so rich load oppress'd,
Did bow adown as overburthened.

Under that porch a comely dame did rest,
Clad in fair weeds, but foul disordered,
And garments loose, that seem'd unmeet for
womanhead :

In her left hand a cup of gold she held,
And with her right the riper fruit did reach,
Whose sappy liquor, that with fullness swell'd,
Into her cup she scruzed with dainty breach
Of her fine fingers, without foul empeach
That so fair wine-press made the wine more sweet:
Thereof she used to give to drink to each,
Whom passing by she happened to meet :

So she to Guyon offer'd it to taste : Who, taking it out of her tender hand, The cup to ground did violently cast, That all in pieces it was broken fond, And with the liquor stained all the land: Whereat Excess exceedingly was wroth, Yet no'te the same amend, ne yet withstand, But suffered him to pass, all were she lothe, Who, nought regarding her displeasure, forward goeth.

There the most dainty paradise on ground Itself doth offer to his sober eye, In which all pleasures plenteously abound, And none does other's happiness envy ; The painted flowers, the trees upshooting high ; The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space; That trembling groves, the crystal running by ; And that which all fair works doth most aggrace, The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

One would have thought, (so cunningly the rude
And scorned parts were mingled with the fine,)
That Nature had for wantonness ensude
Art, and that Art at Nature did repine;
So striving each th' other to undermine,
Each did the other's work more beautify,
So differing both in wills agreed in fine :
So all agreed, through sweet diversity,
This garden to adorn with all variety.

And in the midst of all a fountain stood,
Of richest substance that on the earth might be,
So pure and shiny, that the silver flood
Through every channel running one might see :
Most goodly it with curious imagery

Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boys,
Of which some seem'd, with lively jollity,

To fly about, playing their wanton toys,

On which when gazing him the palmer saw,
He much rebuked those wand'ring eyes of his,
And, counsell'd well, him forward thence did draw.
Now are they come nigh to the Bower of Bliss,
Of her fond favourites so named amiss;
When thus the palmer: "Now, Sir, well avise,
For here the end of all our travel is;

Here wonnes Acrasia, whom we must surprise, Else she will slip away, and all our drift despise."

Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
To rede what manner music that mote be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear,
Was there consorted in one harmony;

At last she her advised, that he which made
That mirror wherein the sick damosel

So strangely viewed her strange lover's shade,
To weet the learned Merlin, well could tell
Under what coast of heaven the man did dwell,
And by what means his love might best be wrought;
For though beyond the Afric Ismael,
Or th' Indian Peru he were, she thought
Him forth through infinite endeavour to have sought.

Forthwith themselves disguising both in strange And base attire, that none might them bewray, To Maridunum, that is now by change

Of name Cayr-Merdin call'd, they took their way;
There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say)
To make his wonne, low underneath the ground,
In a deep delve, far from the view of day;
That of no living wight he mote be found,
Whenso he counsell'd, with his sprites encompass'd
round.

And if thou ever happen that same way
To travel, go to see that dreadful place :
It is an hideous hollow cave (they say)
Under a rock that lies a little space
From the swift Barry, tumbling down apace
Amongst the woody hills of Dynevowre:
But dare thou not, I charge, in any case,
To enter into that same baleful bower,

For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares devour.

But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear,
And there such ghastly noise of iron chains,
And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear,
Which thousand sprites, with long-enduring

pains,

Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains; And oftentimes great groans and grievous stounds, When too huge toil and labour them constrains, And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds, From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds.

The cause, some say, is this: a little while Before that Merlin died, he did intend A brazen wall in compass to compile About Cairmardin, and did it commend Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end; During which work the Lady of the Lake, Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send, Who thereby forced his workmen to forsake, Them bound till his return their labour not to slake.

In the mean time, through that false lady's train, He was surprised and buried under bier, Ne ever to his work return'd again; Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear, So greatly his commandement they fear, But there do toil and travail day and night, Until that brazen wall they up do rear; For Merlin had in magic more insight Than ever him before or after living wight.

For he by words could call out of the sky
Both sun and moon, and make them him obey;
The land to sea, and sea to mainland dry,
And darksome night he eke could turn to day;
Huge hosts of men he could alone dismay,
And hosts of men of meanest things could frame,
Whenso him list his enemies to fray;
That to this day, for terror of his fame,
The fiends do quake when any him to them does name.

And sooth men say, that he was not the son
Of mortal sire, or other living wight,
But wond'rously begotten and begone
By false illusion of a guileful sprite
On a fair lady nun, that whilom hight
Matilda, daughter to Pubidius,

Who was the lord of Mathtraval by right,
And cousin unto king Ambrosius,
Whence he enduëd was with skill so marvellous.

They here arriving, stay'd awhile without, Ne durst adventure rashly in to wend, But of their first intent 'gan make new doubt For dread of danger, which it might portend, Until the hardy maid (with love to friend) First entering, the dreadful mage there found Deep busied 'bout work of wond'rous end, And writing strange characters in the ground, With which the stubborn fiends he to his service * [bound.

*

SHE on a day, as she pursued the chace

Of some wild beast, which, with her arrows keen, She wounded had, the same along did trace By tract of blood, which she had freshly seen To have besprinkled all the grassy green; By the great pursue which she there perceived, Well hoped she the beast engored had been, And made more haste the life to have bereaved; But ah! her expectation greatly was deceived.

Shortly she came whereas that woeful squire, With blood deformed, lay in deadly swound; In whose fair eyes, like lamps of quenched fire, The crystal humour stood congealed round; His locks, like faded leaves, fallen to ground, Knotted with blood, in bunches rudely ran, And his sweet lips, on which, before that stound, The bud of youth to blossom fair began, Spoil'd of their rosy red, were waxen pale and wan.

Saw never living eye more heavy sight,

That could have made a rock of stone to rue Or rive in twain; which when that lady bright Besides all hope, with melting eyes did view, All suddenly abash'd, she changed hue, And with stern horror backward 'gan to start; But when she better him beheld, she grew Full of soft passion and unwonted smart ; The point of pity pierced through her tender heart.

Meekly she bowed down, to weet if life
Yet in his frozen members did remain,
And feeling by his pulse's beating rife
That the weak soul her seat did yet retain,
She cast to comfort him with busy pain.
His double-folded neck she rear'd upright,
And rubb'd his temples and each trembling vein;
His mailed haberjon she did undight,
And from his head his heavy burganet did light.

Into the woods thenceforth in haste she went,
To seek for herbs that mote him remedy,
For she of herbs had great intendiment,
Taught of the nymph which from her infancy
Her nursed had in true nobility;
There, whether it divine tobacco were,
Or panacæa, or polygony,

She found, and brought it to her patient dear, Who all this while lay bleeding out his heart-blood

near.

The sovereign weed, betwixt two marbles plain,
She pounded small, and did in pieces bruise,
And then atween her lily handès twain
Into his wound the juice thereof did scruze,
And round about (as she could well it use)
The flesh therewith she suppled and did steep,
T'abate all spasm, and soak the swelling bruise;
And after having search'd the intuse deep,
She with her scarf did bind the wound, from cold to
keep.

By this he had sweet life recur'd again.
And groaning inly deep, at last his eyes,
His watery eyes, drizzling like dewy rain,
He up 'gan lift toward the azure skies,
From whence descend all hopeless remedies:
Therewith he sigh'd; and turning him aside,
The goodly maid, full of divinities,

And gifts of heavenly grace, he by him spied,
Her bow and gilden quiver lying him beside.

"Mercy, dear Lord!" said he," what grace is this
That thou hast shewed to me, sinful wight,
To send thine angel from her bower of bliss
To comfort me in my distressed plight?
Angel, or goddess, do I call thee right?
What service may I do unto thee meet,
That hast from darkness me return'd to light,
And with thy heavenly salves and med'cines sweet
Hast drest my sinful wounds? I kiss thy blessed feet."

Thereat she blushing said, "Ah! gentle Squire,
Nor goddess I, nor angel, but the maid
And daughter of a woody nymph, desire
No service but thy safety and aid,
Which if thou gain, I shall be well apaid.
We mortal wights, whose lives and fortunes be
To common accidents still open laid,
Are bound with common bond of frailty,
To succour wretched wights whom we captived
see."

Thus warred he long time against his will,
Till that through weakness he was forced at last
To yield himself unto the mighty ill,
Which as a victor proud 'gan ransack fast
His inward parts, and all his entrails waste,
That neither blood in face, nor life in heart,
It left, but both did quite dry up and blast,
As piercing levin, which the inner part
Of everything consumes, and càlcineth by art.

Which seeing, fair Belphoebe 'gan to fear
Least that his wound were inly well not heal'd,
Or that the wicked steel empoison'd were ;
Little she ween'd that love he close conceal'd;
Yet still he wasted, as the snow congeal'd,
When the bright sun his beams theron doth beat;
Yet never he his heart to her reveal'd,
But rather chose to die for sorrow great,
Than with dishonourable terms her to entreat.

For, when as day the heaven doth adorn,
I wish that night the noyous day would end;
And when as night hath us of light forlorn,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And fain my grief with changes to beguile,
That further seems his term still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a mile.
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last,
But joyous hours do fly away too fast.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
For his return that seems to linger late ;
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourn to myself the absence of my Love,
And, wand'ring here and there, all desolate,
Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove;
Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me but her own joyous sight,
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasuns to delight.
Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss,
And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss.

OF

THIS bold and spirited poem has been ascribed to several authors, but to none on satisfactory authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as early as 1593, when Francis Davison, who published it in his Poetical Rhapsody, was too young to be supposed, with much probability, to have written it; and as Davison's work was a compilation, his claims to it must be very doubtful. Sir Egerton Brydges has published it among Sir Walter Raleigh's poems, but without a tittle of evidence to show that it was the production of that great man. Mr. Ellis gives it to Joshua Sylvester, evidently by mistake. Whoever looks at the folio vol. of Sylvester's poems, will see

that Joshua uses the beautiful original merely as a text, and has the conscience to print his own stuff in a way that shows it to be interpolated. Among those additions there occur some such execrable stanzas as the following:

Say, soldiers are the sink
Of sin to all the realm,
Giv'n all to whore and drink,
To quarrel and blaspheme.

Tell townsmen, that because that They prank their brides so proud, Too many times it draws that Which makes them beetle-brow'd.

Ohe jam satis!