Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

Epithalamion

YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes

Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,

Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,

That even the greatest did not greatly scorne

To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,

But joyed in theyr praise;

And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,

Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,

Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,

And teach the woods and waters to lament

Your dolefull dreriment:

Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;

And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,

Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;

Ne let the same of any be envide:

So Orpheus did for his owne bride!

So I unto my selfe alone will sing;

The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe

His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,

Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,

Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,

Go to the bowre of my beloved love,

My truest turtle dove;

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

And long since ready forth his maske to move,

With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,

And many a bachelor to waite on him,

In theyr fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,

For lo! the wished day is come at last,

That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,

Pay to her usury of long delight:

And, whylest she doth her dight,

Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare

Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,

And of the sea that neighbours to her neare:

Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.

And let them also with them bring in hand

Another gay girland,

For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,

Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.

And let them make great store of bridale poses,

And let them eeke bring store of other flowers,

To deck the bridale bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,

For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,

Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,

And diapred lyke the discolored mead.

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,

For she will waken strayt;

The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,

The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;

The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,

All ready to her silver coche to clyme;

And Phœbus gins to shew his glorious hed.

Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies

And carroll of Loves praise.

The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;

The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;

The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;

So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,

To this dayes merriment.

Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long,

When meeter were that ye should now awake,

T’ awayt the comming of your joyous make,

And hearken to the birds love-learned song,

The deawy leaves among!

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames,

And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were

With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams

More bright than Hesperus his head doth rere.

Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,

Helpe quickly her to dight:

But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot,

In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;

Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,

And al, that ever in this world is fayre,

Doe make and still repayre:

And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,

The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,

Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:

And, as ye her array, still throw betweene

Some graces to be seene;

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:

Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:

And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,

Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.

Set all your things in seemely good aray,

Fit for so joyfull day:

The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see,

Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,

And let thy lifull heat not fervent be,

For feare of burning her sunshyny face,

Her beauty to disgrace.

O fayrest Phœbus! father of the Muse!

If ever I did honour thee aright,

Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,

Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;

But let this day, let this one day, be myne;

Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,

That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,

Lyke Phœbe, from her chamber of the East,

Arysing forth to run her mighty race,

Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.

So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene

Some angell she had beene.

Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,

Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,

Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre;

And, being crowned with a girland greene,

Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.

Her modest eyes, abashed to behold

So many gazers as on her do stare,

Upon the lowly ground affixed are;

Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,

But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,

So farre from being proud.

Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,

The inward beauty of her lively spright,

Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,

Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,

And stand astonisht lyke to those which red

Medusaes mazeful hed.

There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,

Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,

Regard of honour, and mild modesty;

There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,

And giveth lawes alone,

The which the base affections doe obay,

And yeeld theyr services unto her will;

Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may

Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.

Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,

And unrevealed pleasures,

Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,

That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,

And all the postes adorne as doth behove,

And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,

For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,

That commeth in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,

She commeth in, before th’ Almighties view;

Of her ye virgins learne obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,

To humble your proud faces:

Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may

The sacred ceremonies there partake,

The which do endlesse matrimony make;

And let the roring Organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in lively notes;

The whiles, with hollow throates,

The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,

That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,

Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,

And blesseth her with his two happy hands,

How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,

And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne

Like crimsin dyde in grayne:

That even th’ Angels, which continually

About the sacred Altare doe remaine,

Forget their service and about her fly,

Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,

The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,

Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsownd.

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band!

Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,

That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;

Bring home the triumph of our victory:

Bring home with you the glory of her gaine;

With joyance bring her and with jollity.

Never had man more joyfull day then this,

Whom heaven would heape with blis,

Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;

This day for ever to me holy is.

Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,

Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,

Poure out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.

Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,

And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;

And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,

For they can doo it best:

The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,

And leave your wonted labors for this day:

This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,

That ye for ever it remember may.

This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,

With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,

He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,

When once the Crab behind his back he sees.

But for this time it ill ordained was,

To chose the longest day in all the yeare,

And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:

Yet never day so long, but late would passe.

Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,

And bonefiers make all day;

And daunce about them, and about them sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,

And lende me leave to come unto my love?

How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?

How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?

Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home,

Within the Westerne fome:

Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest.

Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,

And the bright evening-star with golden creast

Appeare out of the East.

Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!

That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,

And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread,

How chearefully thou lookest from above,

And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,

As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,

That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,

In which a thousand torches flaming bright

Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods

In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;

And all ye powers which in the same remayne,

More then we men can fayne!

Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,

And happy influence upon us raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possesse

With lasting happinesse,

Up to your haughty pallaces may mount;

And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit,

May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,

Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.

So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,

And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing:

The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring!