Since that the stormie rage of passions darke, —
Of passions darke, made darke by beauties' light, —
With rebell force hath clos'de in dungeon darke
My minde, ere now led forth by reason's light: —
Since all the things which giue my eyes their light
Doe foster still the fruites of fancies darke,
So that the windowes of my inward light
Doe serue to make my inward powers darke: —
Since, as I say, both mind and senses darke
Are hurt, not helpt, with piercing of the light;
While that the light may shew the horrors darke,

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget; my thoughts, which never swerue
From her in whom is sowne thir freedome's seed,
And in whose eyes my daily doome I reede.

Phaebus, farewell; a sweeter saint I serue;
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is aboue;
She heau'n on earth with beauties doth preserue:
Thy beames I like, but her clear rayes I loue;
Thy force I feare, her force I still doe proue.
Phaebus, yeeld vp thy title in my minde

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth,
The Ayre in raine for my affliction weepeth,
The Sea to ebbe for griefe his flowing turneth,
The Earth with pittie dull his center keepeth;
Fame is with wonder blased,
Time runnes away for sorrow,
Place standeth still amazed
To see my night of euils, which hath no morrow:
Alas, alonely she no pitie taketh
To know my miseries, but, chaste and cruell,
My fall her glory maketh;
Yet still her eyes giue to my flames their fuell.
Fire, burne me quite, till sense of burning leaue me;

With two strange fires of equall heat possest,
The one of Loue, the' other of Iealousie,
Both still do worke, in neither I find rest;
For both, alas, their strengths together tie,
The one aloft doth hold, the other hie.
Loue wakes the iealous eye least thence it moues;
The iealous eye the more it lookes, it loues.
These fires increase: in these I dayly burne;
They feed on me, and with my wings do flie;
My louely ioyes to dolefull ashes turne,
Their flames mount vp, my powers prostrate lie;
They liue in force, I quite consumed die.

In vaine, mine eyes, you labour to amend
With flowing teares your fault of hastie sight,
Since to my hart her shape you so did send,
That her I see, though you did lose your light.
In vaine, my heart, now you with sight are burn'd,
With sighes you seeke to coole your hot desire,
Since sighes (into mine inward furnace turn'd)
For bellowes serue to kindle more the fire.
Reason, in vaine, now you haue lost my heart,
My head you seeke, as to your strongest fort,
Since there mine eyes haue plaid so false a part,

Unto the caitiff wretch whom long affliction holdeth,
and now fully believes help to be quite perished,
Grant yet, grant yet a look, to the last monument of his anguish,
O you (alas so I find) cause of his only ruin.
Dread not a whit (O goodly cruel) that pity may enter
into thy heart by the sight of this epistle I send;
And so refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recital,
lest it might thee allure home to thyself to return
(Unto thyself I do mean, those graces dwell so within thee,

38

Sitting Galone, Love bids me goe and write;
Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay,
Boasting, that she doth still direct the way,
Or else Love were unable to indite:
Love growing angry, vexed at the Spleene,
And scorning Reason's maymed Argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where she with Love conversing hath not beene;
Reason reproched with this coy Disdaine,
Despiteth Love, and laug heth at her Folly;
And Love contemning Reasons reason wholly,
Thought it in weight too light by many a Graine:

36

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast beene so slacke,
To wound her Heart, whose Eyes have wounded me,
And suff'red her to glory in my Wracke,
Thus to my aid, I lastly conjure thee;
By Hellish Styx (by which the T HUND'RER sweares)
By thy faire Mothers unavoided Power,
By H ECAT'S Names, by P ROSERPINE'S sad Teares,
When she was rapt to the infernall Bower;
By thine owne loved Psyches , by the Fires
Spent on thine Altars, flaming up to Heav'n;
By all true Lovers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires,
By all the Wounds that ever thou hast giv'n;

What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard
Up to thy summit, through the depth of air
Ascending, as if distance had the power
To make the sounds more audible? What crowd
Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green?
Crowd seems it, solitary hill! to thee,
Though but a little family of men,
Shepherds and tillers of the ground—betimes
Assembled with their children and their wives,
And here and there a stranger interspersed.
They hold a rustic fair—a festival,
Such as, on this side now, and now on that,

What sounds are those, Helvellyn, which are heard
Up to thy summit, through the depth of air
Ascending, as if distance had the power
To make the sounds more audible? What crowd
Is yon, assembled in the gay green field?
Crowd seems it, solitary hill! to thee,
Though but a little family of men,
Twice twenty, with their children and their wives,
And here and there a stranger interspersed.
It is a summer festival — a fair,
Such as, on this side now, and now on that,
Repeated through his tributary vales,
Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest,