Classic Poem

As when a lusty sawyer, well prepar'd,
His breakfast eaten, and his timber squar'd,
About to raise up as he thinketh fit
A good sound tree above his sawing pit,
His neighbours call'd; each one a lusty heaver,
Some steer the roller, others ply the lever;
Heave here, says one; another calls, shove thither;
Heave, roll, and shove! cry all, and altogether;
Look to your foot, sir, and take better heed,
Cries a by-stander, no more haste than need;
Lift up that end there; bring it gently on;
And now thrust all at once, or all is gone,
Hold there a little; soft; now use your strength,
And with this stir, the tree lies fit at length:
Just such a noise was heard when came the last
Of Oberon's second mess. One cried, hold fast;
Put five more of the guard to 't, of the best;
Look to your footing; stop awhile and rest;
One would have thought, with so much strength and din,
They surely would have brought Behemoth in,
That mighty ox which (as the Rabbins say)
Shall feast the Jews upon the latter day.
But at the last, with all this noise and cry,
Ten of the guard brought in a minnow-pie.
The mountain labour'd and brought forth a mouse,
And why not in this mighty prince's house
As any others? Well, the pie was placed,
And then the music struck, and all things graced.
It was a concert of the choicest set
That never stood to tune, or right a fret;
For Nature to this king such music sent,
Most were both players and the instrument.
No famous sensualist, whate'er he be,
Who in the brazen leaves of history
Hath his name register'd, for vast expense
In striving how to please his hearing sense,
Had ever harmony chose for his ear
So fit as for this king; and these they were.
The treble was a three-mouth'd grasshopper,
Well tutor'd by a skilful quirister:
An ancient master, that did use to play
The friskings which the lambs do dance in May,
And long time was the chiefest call'd to sing,
When on the plains the fairies made a ring;
Then a field-cricket, with a note full clean,
Sweet and unforc'd and softly sung the mean,
To whose accord, and with no mickle labour,
A pretty fairy play'd upon a tabor:
The case was of a hazel-nut, the heads
A bat's-wing dress'd, the snares were silver threads;
A little stiffen'd lamprey's skin did suit
All the rest well, and serv'd them for a flute;
And to all these a deep well-breasted gnat,
That had good sides, knew well his sharp and flat,
Sung a good compass, making no wry face, —
Was there as fittest for a chamber bass.
These choice musicians to their merry king
Gave all the pleasure which their art could bring.
At last he ask'd a song; but ere I fall
To sing it over in my Pastoral,
Give me some respite: now the day grows old,
And 'tis full time that I had pitch'd my fold.
When next sweet morning calls us from our beds,
With harmless thoughts and with untroubled heads,
Meet we in Rowden meadows, where the flood
Kisses the banks, and courts the shady wood;
A wood wherein some of these lays were dress'd,
And often sung by Willy of the west:
Upon whose trees the name of Licea stands,
Licea more fleeting than my Tavy's sands.
Grow old, ye rinds! and shed away that name;
But oh! what hand shall wipe away her shame?
There let us meet. And if my younger quill
Bring not such raptures from the sacred hill
With others, to whom Heaven infused breath
When reign'd our glorious dear Elizabeth,
(The nurse of learning and the blessed arts,
The centre of Spain's envy and our hearts),
If that the Muses fail me not, I shall
Perfect the little fairies' festival,
And charm your ears so with that prince's song,
That those fair nymphs which daily tread along
The western rivers and survey the fountains,
And those which haunt the woods, and sky-kiss'd mountains,
Shall learn and sing it to ensuing times
When I am dust. And, Tavy, in my rhymes
Challenge a due; let it thy glory be,
That famous Drake and I were born by thee!