Classic Poem

No small delight the shepherds took to see
A coombe so dight in Flora's livery,
Where fair Feronia honour'd in the woods,
And all the deities that haunt the floods,
With powerful Nature strove to frame a plot,
Whose like the sweet Arcadia yielded not.
Down through the arched wood the shepherds wend,
And seek all places that might help their end,
When, coming near the bottom of the hill,
A deep-fetch'd sigh (which seem'd of power to kill
The breast that held it) pierc'd the list'ning wood;
Whereat the careful swains no longer stood
Where they were looking on a tree, whose rind
A love-knot held, which two join'd hearts entwin'd;
But searching round, upon an aged root
Thick lin'd with moss which (though to little boot)
Seem'd as a shelter it had lending been
Against cold winter's storms and wreakful teen:
Or clad the stock in summer with that hue
His wither'd branches not a long time knew:
For in his hollow trunk and perish'd grain
The cuckow now had many a winter lain,
And thriving pismires laid their eggs in store:
The dormouse slept there, and a many more—
Here sat the lad, of whom I think of old
Virgil's prophetic spirit had foretold,
Who whilst Dame Nature for her cunning's sake
A male or female doubted which to make,
And to adorn him more than all assay'd,
This pretty youth was almost made a maid.
Sadly he sat, and (as would Grief) alone,
As if the boy and tree had been but one,
Whilst down near boughs did drops of amber creep,
As if his sorrow made the trees to weep.
If ever this were true in Ovid's verse
That tears have power an adamant to pierce,
Or move things void of sense, 'twas here approv'd:
Things, vegetative once, his tears have mov'd.
Stirely the stones might well be drawn in pity
To burst that he should moan, as for a ditty
To come and range themselves in order all.
And of their own accord raise Thebes a wall,
Or else his tears (as did the other's song)
Might have th' attractive power to move the throng
Of all the forest's citizens and woods,
With ev'ry denizen of air and floods,
To sit by him and grieve: to leave their jars,
Their strifes, dissensions, and all civil wars;
And though else disagreeing, in this one
Mourning for him should make an union.
For whom the heavens would wear a sable suit,
If men, beasts, fishes, birds, trees, stones were mute.
His eyes were fixed (rather fixed stars)
With whom it seem'd his tears had been in wars,
The diff'rence this (a hard thing to descry)
Whether the drops were clearest, or his eye.
Tears fearing conquest to the eye might fall,
An inundation brought and drowned all.
Yet like true Virtue from the top of state,
Whose hopes vile Envy hath seen ruinate,
Being lowly cast, her goodness doth appear
(Uncloth'd of greatness) more apparent clear:
So though dejected, yet remain'd a feature,
Made sorrow sweet plac'd in so sweet a creature,
“The test of misery the truest is,
In that none hath but what is surely his.”
His arms across, his sheep-hook lay beside him:
Had Venus pass'd this way, and chanc'd t' have spied him,
With open breast, locks on his shoulders spread,
She would have sworn (had she not seen him dead)
It was Adonis; or if e'er there was
Held transmigration by Pythagoras
Of souls, that certain then her lost love's spirit
A fairer body never could inherit.
His pipe, which often wont upon the plain
To sound the Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian strain,
Lay from his hook and bag clean cast apart,
And almost broken like his master's heart.
Yet till the two kind shepherds near him stepp'd,
I find he nothing spake but that he wept.
Cease, gentle lad (quoth Remond), let no tear
Cloud those sweet beauties in thy face appear;
Why dost thou call on that which comes alone,
And will not leave thee till thyself art gone?
Thou may'st have grief, when other things are reft thee:
All else may slide away, this still is left thee;
And when thou wantest other company,
Sorrow will ever be embracing thee.
But, fairest swain, what cause hast thou of woe?
Thou'hast a well-fleec'd flock feed to and fro
(His sheep along the valley that time fed
Not far from him, although unfollowed).
What, do thy ewes abortives bring? or lambs
For want of milk seek to their fellows' dams?
No griping landlord hath enclos'd thy walks,
Nor toiling ploughman furrow'd them in balks.
Ver hath adorn'd thy pastures all in green
With clover-grass as fresh as may be seen:
Clear-gliding springs refresh thy meadows' heat,
Meads promise to thy charge their winter-meat,
And yet thou griev'st! O! had some swains thy store,
Their pipes should tell the woods they ask'd no more.
Or have the Parcæ with unpartial knife
Left some friend's body tenantless of life,
And thou bemoan'st that Fate in his youth's morn
O'ercast with clouds his light but newly born?
“Count not how many years he is bereav'd,
But those which he possess'd and had receiv'd;
If I may tread no longer on this stage,
Though others think me young; it is mine age:
For whoso hath his fate's full period told,
He full of years departs, and dieth old.”
May be that avarice thy mind hath cross'd,
And so thy sighs are for some trifle lost.
Why shouldst thou hold that dear the world throws on thee?
“Think nothing good which may be taken from thee.”
Look as some pond'rous weight or massy pack,
Laid to be carried on a porter's back,
Doth make his strong joints crack, and forceth him
(Maugre the help of every nerve and limb)
To straggle in his gait, and goeth double,
Bending to earth, such is his burden's trouble:
So any one by avarice engirt,
And press'd with wealth, lies grovelling in the dirt.
His wretched mind bends to no point but this,
That who hath most of wealth hath most of bliss.
Hence comes the world to seek such traffic forth
And passages through the congealed North,
Who when their hairs with icicles are hung,
And that their chatt'ring teeth confound their tongue,
Show them a glitt'ring stone, will straightways say,
If pains thus prosper, oh, what fools would play?
Yet I could tell them (as I now do thee)
“In getting wealth we lose our liberty.
Besides, it robs us of our better powers,
And we should be ourselves, were these not ours.
He is not poorest that hath least in store,
But he which hath enough, yet asketh more:
Nor is he rich by whom are all possess'd,
But he which nothing hath, yet asketh least.
If thou a life by Nature's leading pitch,
Thou never shalt be poor, nor ever rich
Led by Opinion; for their states are such,
Nature but little seeks, Opinion much.”
Amongst the many buds proclaiming May,
(Decking the fields in holy-day's array,
Striving who shall surpass in bravery)
Mark the fair blooming of the hawthorn-tree,
Who, finely clothed in a robe of white,
Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight;
Yet for the bravery that she is in
Doth neither handle card nor wheel to spin,
Nor changeth robes but twice: is never seen
In other colours than in white or green.
Learn then content, young shepherd, from this tree,
Whose greatest wealth is Nature's livery;
And richest ingots never toil to find,
Nor care for poverty but of the mind.