Classic Poem

A shepherd (near this flood that fed his sheep,
Who at this chance left grazing and did weep)
Having so sad an object for his eyes,
Left pipe and flock, and in the water flies,
To save a jewel, which was never sent
To be possess'd by one sole element:
But such a work Nature dispos'd and gave,
Where all the elements concordance have.
He took her in his arms, for pity cried,
And brought her to the river's further side:
Yea, and he sought by all his art and pain,
To bring her likewise to herself again:
While she that by her fall was senseless left,
And almost in the waves had life bereft,
Lay long, as if her sweet immortal spirit
Was fled some other palace to inherit.
But as clear Phaebus, when some foggy cloud
His brightness from the world a while doth shroud,
Doth by degrees begin to show his light
Unto the view: or, as the queen of night,
In her increasing horns, doth rounder grow,
Till full and perfect she appear in show:
Such order in this maid the shepherd spies,
When she began to show the world her eyes.
Who (thinking now that she had pass'd death's dream,
Occasion'd by her fall into the stream,
And that hell's ferryman did then deliver
Her to the other side th' internal river)
Said to the swain: O Charon, I am bound
More to thy kindness than all else that round
Come thronging to thy boat: thou hast pass'd over
The woful'st maid that e'er these shades did cover.
But, prithee, ferryman, direct my spright
Where that black river runs that Lethe hight,
That I of it (as other ghosts) may drink,
And never of the world, or love, more think.
The swain perceiving by her words ill sorted,
That she was wholly from herself transported,
And fearing lest those often idle fits
Might clean expel her uncollected wits:
Fair nymph (said he), the powers above deny
So fair a beauty should so quickly die.
The heavens unto the world have made a loan,
And must for you have interest, three for one.
Call back your thoughts o'ercast with dolour's night;
Do you not see the day, the heavens, the light?
Do you not know in Pluto's darksome place
The light of heaven did never show his face?
Do not your pulses beat? y'are warm, have breath,
Your sense is rapt with fear, but not with death.
I am not Charon, nor of Pluto's host;
Nor is there flesh and blood found in a ghost;
But as you see, a seely shepherd's swain,
Who though my mere revenues be the train
Of milk-white sheep, yet am I joy'd as much
In saving you (O, who would not save such?),
As ever was the wand'ring youth of Greece,
That brought from Colchos home the golden fleece.
The never-too-much-praised fair Marine,
Hearing those words, believ'd her ears and eyne:
And knew how she escaped had the flood
By means of this young swain that near her stood.
Whereat for grief she 'gan again to faint,
Redoubling thus her cries and sad complaint:
Alas! and is that likewise barr'd from me,
Which for all persons else lies ever free?
Will life, nor death, nor ought abridge my pain?
But live still dying, die to live again? —
Then most unhappy I! which find most sure,
The wound of love neglected is past cure.
Most cruel god of love (if such there be),
That still to my desires art contrary!
Why should I not in reason this obtain,
That as I love, I may be lov'd again?
Alas! with thee too, Nature plays her parts,
That fram'd so great a discord 'tween two hearts:
One flies, and always doth in hate persever;
The other follows, and in love grows ever.
Why dost thou not extinguish clean this flame,
And place't on him that best deserves the same?
Why had not I affected some kind youth,
Whose every word had been the word of truth?
Who might have had to love, and lov'd to have,
So true a heart as I to Celand gave.
For Psyche's love! if beauty gave thee birth,
Or if thou hast attractive power on earth,
Dame Venus' sweetest child, requite this love.
Or fate yield means my soul may hence remove!
Once seeing in a spring her drowned eyes,
O cruel beauty, cause of this (she cries),
Mother of Love (my joy's most fatal knife),
That work'st her death, by whom thyself hast life!
The youthful swain that heard this loving saint
So oftentimes to pour forth such complaint,
Within his heart such true affection prais'd,
And did perceive kind love and pity rais'd
His mind to sighs; yea, beauty forced this,
That all her grief he thought was likewise his.
And having brought her what his lodge affords,
Sometime he wept with her, sometime with words
Would seek to comfort; when, alas! poor elf,
He needed then a comforter himself,
Daily whole troops of grief unto him came
For her who languish'd of another flame.
If that she sigh'd, he thought him lov'd of her,
When 'twas another sail her wind did stir:
But had her sighs and tears been for this boy,
Her sorrow had been less, and more her joy.
Long time in grief he hid his love-made pains,
And did attend her walks in woods and plains:
Bearing a fuel, which her sun-like eyes
Enflam'd, and made his heart the sacrifice:
Yet he, sad swain, to show it did not dare;
And she, lest he should love, nigh died for fear.
She, ever-wailing, blam'd the powers above,
That night nor day give any rest to love.
He prais'd the heavens in silence, oft was mute,
And thought with tears and sighs to win his suit.