Classic Poem

His sorrow this way yet had further gone,
For now his soul, all in confusion,
Discharg'd her passions on all things she met,
And, rather than on none, on counterfeit.
For in her suff'rings she will sooner frame
Subjects fantastical, forms without name,
Deceive itself against her own conceit,
Then want to work on somewhat thought of weight.
Hence comes it, those affections which are tied
To an enforced bed, a worthless bride,
(Wanting a lawful hold) our loving part
To subjects of less worth doth soon convert
Her exercise, which should be nobly free,
Rather on dogs, or dice, than idle be.
Thus on his memory, poor soul, he cast
His exclamations; and the day had pass'd
With him as sadly as his sighs were true.
And on this subject. When (as if he flew)
Leap'd from a near grove (as he thought) a man,
And to th' adjoining wood as quickly ran;
This stay'd his thoughts. And, whilst the other fled,
He rose, scarce knowing why, and followed.
It was a gentle swain, on whose sweet youth
Fortune had thrown her worst, and all men's ruth;
Who, like a satyr now, from men's abode
The uncouth paths of gloomy deserts trod;
Deep, sullen vales, that never mercy won,
To have a kind look from the pow'rful sun;
But mantled up in shades as fearful night,
Could merry hearts with awful terror smite.
Sad nooks and dreadful clefts of mighty rocks
That knew no guest within their careless locks,
But baneful serpents, hated beasts of prey,
And fatal fowl, that from the blessed day
Hid their abhorred heads; these, only these,
Were his companions and his cottages.
Wayfaring man, for aftertimes y-bore,
Whoe'er thou be, that on the pleasant shore
Of my dear Tavy hap'st to tread along,
When Willy sings no more his rural song,
But long dissolv'd to dust, shall hardly have
A tear or verse bestow'd upon his grave —
Think on that hapless lad, for all his meed,
Who first this lay tun'd to an oaten reed;
Then ask the swains who, in the valleys deep,
Sing lays of love and feed their harmless sheep,
Ask them for Ramsham (late a gallant wood
Whose gaudy nymphs, tripping beside the flood,
Allur'd the sea-gods from their brackish strands
To court the beauties of the upper lands);
And near to it, halfway, a high-brow'd hill,
Whose maiden sides ne'er felt a coulter's ill,
Thou may'st behold, and (if thou list) admire
An arched cave cut in a rock entire,
Deep, hollow, hideous, overgrown with grass,
With thorns and briars, and sad mandragoras:
Poppy and henbane thereby grew so thick,
That had the earth been thrice as lunatic
As learn'd Copernicus in sport would frame her,
We there had sleepy simples found to tame her.
The entrance to it was of brick and stone,
Brought from the ruin'd tower of Babylon.
On either side the door a pillar stood,
Whereon of yore, before the general flood,
Industrious Seth in characters did score
The mathematics' soul-enticing lore.
Cheek-swoll'n Lyaeus near one pillar stood,
And from each hand a bunch, full with the blood
Of the care-killing vine, he crushed out,
Like to an artificial water-spout;
But of what kind it was, the writers vary:
Some say 'twas claret, others swear canary.
On th' other side, a statue strangely fram'd,
And never till Columbus' voyage nam'd,
The Genius of America blew forth
A fume that hath bewitched all the north.
A noise of ballad-makers, rhymers, drinkers,
Like a mad crew of uncontrolled thinkers,
Lay there, and drunk, and sung, and suck'd, and writ
Verse without measure, volumes without wit;
Complaints and sonnets, vows to young Cupido,
May be in such a manner as now I do.
He that in some fair day of summer sees
A little commonwealth of thrifty bees
Send out a pretty colony, to thrive
Another where, from their too-peopled hive,
And marks the young adventurers with pain
Fly off and on, and forth, and back again,
May well conceive with how much labour these
Drunk, writ, and wrong'd the learn'd Pierides;
Yet time, as soon as e'er their works were done,
Threw them and it into oblivion.
Into this cave the forlorn shepherd enters,
And Celadyne pursues; yet ere he venters
On such an obscure place, knowing the danger
Which oft betided there the careless stranger,
Moly or such preservative he takes,
And thus assur'd, breaks through the tangling brakes;
Searcheth each nook to find the hapless swain,
And calls him oft, yet seeks and calls in vain.
At last, by glimm'ring of some glowworms there,
He finds a dark hole and a winding stair;
Uncouth and hideous the descent appears,
Yet, unappall'd with future chance or fears,
Essays the first step, and goes boldly on;
Pieces of rotten wood on each side shone,
Which, rather than to guide his vent'rous pace,
With a more dreadful horror fill'd the place.
Still he descends, and many a step doth make,
As one whose naked foot treads on a snake:
The stairs so worn, he feareth in a trice
To meet some deep and deadly precipice.