Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599). The Complete Poetical Works. 1908.

Astrophel

A Pastorall Aeglogue upon the Death of Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight, &c.

COLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd,

This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine

This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.

Hear’st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd

He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine,

And seemes to say unto the fading flowres

Along his bankes, unto the bared trees,

‘Phillisides is dead’? Up, jolly swaine,

Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay,

Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese,

Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part

Sure would I beare, though rude: but as I may,

With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,

And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.

Colin.Ah, Lycon, Lycon! what need skill, to teach

A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints? How long

Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou)

To learne to mourne her lost make? No, no, each

Creature by nature can tell how to waile.

Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?

Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes

In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile

With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare.

What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes

Himselfe of late? Did any cheerfull note

Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare

Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?

Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,

And testified his grief with flowing teares?

Sith, then, it seemeth each thing, to his powre,

Doth us invite to make a sad consort,

Come, let us joyne our mournfull song with theirs.

Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce

Thy voice, and Eccho will our words report.

Lycon.Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses frame,

That others farre excell, yet will I force

My selfe to answere thee the best I can,

And honor my base words with his high name.

But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit

In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O Pan)

To pardon me, and here this hard constraint

With patience while I sing, and pittie it.

And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell

In these wilde woods, if ever piteous plaint

We did endite, or taught a wofull minde

With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,

Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on,

And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.

Colin.Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death,

O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion,

When shalt thou see emong thy shepheards all,

Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath

Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;

Curteous, valiant, and liberall.

Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire

Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill,

And her faire face bent sadly downe, doth send

A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there

Doth call the heav’ns despightfull, envious,

Cruell his fate, that made so short an end

Of that same life, well worthie to have bene

Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.

The Nymphs and Oreades her round about

Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene,

And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests,

Accuse the direfull dart that Death sent out

To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,

That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.

The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;

They leave their cristall springs, where they wont frame

Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,

To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.

And now the hollow caves, where horror darke

Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,

They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time

With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and barke,

And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.

Lycon.Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme!

Why should my toong expresse thee? Who is left

Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint,

Lycon unfortunate? What spitefull fate,

What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft

Of thy chief comfort, of thy onely stay?

Where is become thy wonted happie state,

(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale,

Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne way,

Along the bankes of many silver streames,

Thou with him yodest, and with him didst scale

The craggie rocks of th’ Alpes and Appenine,

Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames

Of vertue kindled in his noble brest,

Which after did so gloriously forth shine?

But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are

All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest.

Loe Father Neptune, with sad countenance,

How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare,

Yonder, where th’ Ocean with his rolling waves

The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance)

Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about

The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves

All for his comfort gathered there they be.

The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,

The fruitfull Severne with the rest are come

To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see

The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall

Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome.

And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown’d,

With wofull shrikes salute him, great and small.

Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare

Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd.

Colin.Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age,

O widow world! O brookes and fountains cleere,

O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong

With his sweet caroling, which could asswage

The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare;

Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong

These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe;

Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare,

That oft have left your purest cristall springs

To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe

Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts:

Alas! who now is left that like him sings?

When shall you heare againe like harmonie?

So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts?

Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives

The name of Stella, in yonder bay tree.

Happie name, happie tree! faire may you grow,

And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives

To famous emperours, and poets crowne.

Unhappie flock, that wander scattred now,

What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane,

Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne?

For such a shepheard never shall you guide,

Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane.

Lycon.Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite,

That now in heav’n with blessed soules doest bide,

Looke down a while from where thou sitst above,

And see how busie shepheards be to endite

Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare,

And gratefull memory of their kynd love.

Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine,

(Whose lerned muse thou cherisht most whyleare)

Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease

The inward torment and tormenting paine,

That thy departure to us both hath bred;

Ne can each others sorrow yet appease.

Behold the fountains now left desolate,

And withred grasse with cypres boughes bespred;

Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew;

Which, faded, shew the givers faded state,

(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure)

Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.

Whose praiers importune shall the heav’ns for ay,

That to thy ashes rest they may assure;

That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name

With yeerly praises, and the Nymphs alway

Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres;

And that for ever may endure thy fame.

Colin.The sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to steep

In western waves; and th’ aire with stormy showres

Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep.

Lycon, lett ’s rise, and take of them good keep.