Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Michael Drayton. 15631631118. Sirena
NEAR to the silver Trent | |
SIRENA dwelleth; | |
She to whom Nature lent | |
All that excelleth; | |
By which the Muses late | 5 |
And the neat Graces | |
Have for their greater state | |
Taken their places; | |
Twisting an anadem | |
Wherewith to crown her, | 10 |
As it belong’d to them | |
Most to renown her. | |
On thy bank, | |
In a rank, | |
Let thy swans sing her, | 15 |
And with their music | |
Along let them bring her. | |
Tagus and Pactolus | |
Are to thee debtor, | |
Nor for their gold to us | 20 |
Are they the better: | |
Henceforth of all the rest | |
Be thou the River | |
Which, as the daintiest, | |
Puts them down ever. | 25 |
For as my precious one | |
O’er thee doth travel, | |
She to pearl paragon | |
Turneth thy gravel. | |
On thy bank… | 30 |
Our mournful Philomel, | |
That rarest tuner, | |
Henceforth in Aperil | |
Shall wake the sooner, | |
And to her shall complain | 35 |
From the thick cover, | |
Redoubling every strain | |
Over and over: | |
For when my Love too long | |
Her chamber keepeth, | 40 |
As though it suffer’d wrong, | |
The Morning weepeth. | |
On thy bank… | |
Oft have I seen the Sun, | |
To do her honour, | 45 |
Fix himself at his noon | |
To look upon her; | |
And hath gilt every grove, | |
Every hill near her, | |
With his flames from above | 50 |
Striving to cheer her: | |
And when she from his sight | |
Hath herself turnèd, | |
He, as it had been night, | |
In clouds hath mournèd. | 55 |
On thy bank… | |
The verdant meads are seen, | |
When she doth view them, | |
In fresh and gallant green | |
Straight to renew them; | 60 |
And every little grass | |
Broad itself spreadeth, | |
Proud that this bonny lass | |
Upon it treadeth: | |
Nor flower is so sweet | 65 |
In this large cincture, | |
But it upon her feet | |
Leaveth some tincture. | |
On thy bank… | |
The fishes in the flood, | 70 |
When she doth angle, | |
For the hook strive a-good | |
Them to entangle; | |
And leaping on the land, | |
From the clear water, | 75 |
Their scales upon the sand | |
Lavishly scatter; | |
Therewith to pave the mould | |
Whereon she passes, | |
So herself to behold | 80 |
As in her glasses. | |
On thy bank… | |
When she looks out by night, | |
The stars stand gazing, | |
Like comets to our sight | 85 |
Fearfully blazing; | |
As wond’ring at her eyes | |
With their much brightness, | |
Which so amaze the skies, | |
Dimming their lightness. | 90 |
The raging tempests are calm | |
When she speaketh, | |
Such most delightsome balm | |
From her lips breaketh. | |
On thy bank… | 95 |
In all our Brittany | |
There ‘s not a fairer, | |
Nor can you fit any | |
Should you compare her. | |
Angels her eyelids keep, | 100 |
All hearts surprising; | |
Which look whilst she doth sleep | |
Like the sun’s rising: | |
She alone of her kind | |
Knoweth true measure, | 105 |
And her unmatchèd mind | |
Is heaven’s treasure. | |
On thy bank… | |
Fair Dove and Darwen clear, | |
Boast ye your beauties, | 110 |
To Trent your mistress here | |
Yet pay your duties: | |
My Love was higher born | |
Tow’rds the full fountains, | |
Yet she doth moorland scorn | 115 |
And the Peak mountains; | |
Nor would she none should dream | |
Where she abideth, | |
Humble as is the stream | |
Which by her slideth. | 120 |
On thy bank… | |
Yet my pour rustic Muse | |
Nothing can move her, | |
Nor the means I can use, | |
Though her true lover: | 125 |
Many a long winter’s night | |
Have I waked for her, | |
Yet this my piteous plight | |
Nothing can stir her. | |
All thy sands, silver Trent, | 130 |
Down to the Humber, | |
The sighs that I have spent | |
Never can number. | |
On thy bank, | |
In a rank, | 135 |
Let thy swans sing her, | |
And with their music | |
Along let them bring her. |