Classic Poem

A little door, at last, he in the side
Of the long-stretched entry had descried,
And coming to it with the lamp, he spies
These lines upon a table writ: —

Love! when I met her first whose slave I am,
To make her mine, why had I not thy flame?
Or else thy blindness not to see that day?
Or if I needs must look on her rare parts,
Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?

Winter was gone; and by the lovely spring
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,
Where day and night the careless birds did sing,
Love, when I met her first whose slave I am.

She sat and listen'd (for she lov'd his strain)
To one whose songs could make a tiger tame;
Which made me sigh, and cry, O happy swain!
To make her mine, why had I not thy flame?

I vainly sought my passion to control:
And therefore (since she loves the learned lay),
Homer, I should have brought with me thy soul,
Or else thy blindness, not to see that day!

Yet would I not (mine eyes) my days outrun
In gazing (could I help it, or the arts),
Like him that died with looking on the sun;
Or if I needs must, look on her rare parts!

Those, seen of one who every herb would try,
And what the blood of elephants imparts
To cool his flame, yet would he (forced) cry,
Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts?

O Daedalus! the lab'rinth fram'd by thee
Was not so intricate as where I stray;
There have I lost my dearest liberty,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away.


— — — His eyes,
And still attentive ears, do now discover
Sufficient cause to think some hapless lover
Inhabited this dark and sullen cell,
Where none but shame or dismal grief would dwell.
As I have seen a fowler, by the floods
In winter time, or by the fleeced woods,
Steal softly, and his steps full often vary,
As here and there flutters the wished quarry;
Now with his heel, now with his toe he treads,
Fearing the crackling of the frozen meads;
Avoids each rotten stick near to his foot,
And creeps, and labours thus to get a shoot:
So Celadyne approaches near the door,
Where sighs amaz'd him as the lute before;
Sighs fetch'd so deep, they seem'd of pow'r to carry
A soul fit for eternity to marry.
Had Dido stood upon her cliffs and seen
Ilium's Æneas stealing from a queen,
And spent her sighs as pow'rful as were these,
She had enforc'd the fair Nereides
To answer hers; those had the Naiads won,
To drive his winged pine round with the sun,
And long ere Drake (without a fearful wrack)
Girdled the world, and brought the wand'rer back.
Celadyne gently somewhat oped the door,
And by a glimm'ring lamp upon the floor
Descried a pretty curious rocky cell;
A spout of water in one corner fell
Out of the rock upon a little wheel,
Which speedy as it could the water feel
Did, by the help of other engines lent,
Set soon on work a curious instrument,
Whose sound was like the hollow, heavy flute,
Join'd with a deep, sad, sullen cornemute.
This had the unknown shepherd set to play
Such a soul-thrilling note, that if that day
Celadyne had not seen this uncouth youth
Descend the cave, he would have sworn for truth
That great Apollo, slid down from his sphere,
Did use to practise all his lessons there.
Upon a couch the music's master lay;
And whilst the handless instrument did play
Sad heavy accents to his woes as deep,
To woo him to an everlasting sleep,
Stretch'd carelessly upon his little bed,
His eyes fix'd on the floor, his careful head
Leaning upon his palm, his voice but faint,
Thus to the sullen cave made his complaint.

Fate! yet at last be merciful. Have done!
Thou canst ask nothing but confusion:
Take then thy fill! strike till thine edge be dull!
Thy cruelty will so be pitiful.
He that at once hath lost his hopes and fears
Lives not, but only tarries for more years!
Much like an aged tree which moisture lacks,
And only standeth to attend the axe,
So have, and so do I: I truly know
How men are born, and whither they shall go;
I know that like to silkworms of one year,
Or like a kind and wronged lover's tear,
Or on the pathless waves a rudder's dint,
Or like the little sparkles of a flint,
Or like to thin round cakes with cost perfum'd,
Or fireworks only made to be consum'd;
I know that such is man, and all that trust
In that weak piece of animated dust.
The silkworm droops, the lover's tears soon shed,
The ship's way quickly lost, the sparkle dead;
The cake burns out in haste, the firework's done,
And man as soon as these as quickly gone.
Day hath her night; millions of years shall be
Bounded at last by long eternity.
The roses have their spring, they have their fall,
So have the trees, beasts, fowl, and so have all;
The rivers run and end: stars rise and set;
There is a heat, a cold, a dry, a wet;
There is a heaven, a hell, an earth, a sky;
Or teach me something new, or let me die!
Dear fate, be merciful by prayers won,
Teach me once what Death is, and all is done!
Thou may'st object; there's somewhat else to learn;
O do not bring me back unto the quern
To grind for honours, when I cannot tell
What will be said in the next chronicle!
Let my unblemish'd name meet with a tomb
Deservedly unspurn'd at, and at home!
I know there are possessions to inherit;
But since the gate is stopp'd up to all merit,
Some hapless souls, as I, do well observe it,
The way to lose a place is to deserve it.
I am not ignorant besides of this,
Each man the workman of his fortune is;
But to apply and temper well his tools,
He follow must th' advice of babes and fools;
Though virtue and reward be the extremes
Of fortune's line, yet there are other beams,
Some sprigs of bribery imp'd in the line;
Pand'rism or flatt'ry from the Florentine,
Which whoso catches, comes home crown'd with bay,
Ere he that runs the right line runs half way.
What love and beauty is (thou know'st, O Fate!)
I have read over; and, alas! but late;
Their wounds yet bleed, and yet no help is nigh;
Then teach me something new, or let me die!