AWAKE, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail,-
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she
Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark! how the strings awake;
And though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply:
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye!
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound
And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove,
My passion to remove:
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie:
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die!
"WOODS, hills, and rivers, now are desolate,
Sith he is gone, the which them all did grace;
And all the fields do wail their widow state,
Sith death their fairest flower did late deface:
The fairest flower in field that ever grew
Was Astrophel; that was we all may rue.
"What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown
Hath cropt the stalk which bore so fair a flower!
Untimely cropt, before it well were grown,
And clean defaced in untimely hour;
Great loss to all that ever him did see,
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me.
"Break now your girlonds, O ye shepherds' lasses!
Sith the fair flower which them adorn'd is gone;
The flower which them adorn'd is gone to ashes,
Never again let lass put girlond on:
Instead of girlond wear sad cypress now,
And bitter elder broken from the bough.
"Ne ever sing the love-lays which he made;
Who ever made such lays of love as he?
Ne ever read the riddles which he said
Unto yourselves to make you merry glee:
Your merry glee is now laid all abed,
Your merry maker now, alas! is dead.
"Death, the devourer of all world's delight,
Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my joy;
Both you and me, and all the world, he quite
Hath robb'd of joyance, and left sad annoy.
Joy of the world, and shepherds' pride, was he;
Shepherds, hope never like again to see.
"O Death! that hast us of such riches reft,
Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him whose flower here left
Is but the shadow of his likeness gone?
Scarce like the shadow of that which he was,
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.
"But that immortal spirit, which was deck'd With all the dowries of celestial grace,
By sovereign choice from th' heavenly quires select,
And lineally deriv'd from angels' race,
O what is now of it become? aread:
Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead:
"Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die,
But lives for aye in blissful paradise,
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie
In bed of lilies, wrapt in tender wise,
And compass'd all about with roses sweet,
And dainty violets from head to feet.
"There thousand birds, all of celestial brood,
To him do sweetly carol day and night,
And with strange notes, of him well understood,
Lull him asleep in angel-like delight;
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.
"But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine aspects, appearing plain,
And kindling love in him above all measure;
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain:
For what so goodly form he there doth see
He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free.
“There liveth he in everlasting bliss,
Sweet Spirit! never fearing more to die,
Ne dreading harm from any foes of his,
Ne fearing savage beasts' more cruelty,
Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack,
And with vain vows do often call him back.
"But live thou there still, happy, happy Spirit!
And give us leave thee here thus to lament;
Not thee that dost thy heaven's joy inherit,
But our own selves, that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,
Mourning in others our own miseries."
GLIDE soft ye silver floods,
And every spring:
Within the shady woods
Let no bird sing!
Nor from the grove a turtle dove
Be seen to couple with her love;
But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,
Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
But (of great Thetis' train)
Ye mermaids fair,
That on the shores do plain
Your sea-green hair,
ye in trammels knit your locks Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks
In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell
How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
Cease, cease, ye murmuring winds
To move a wave;
But if with troubled minds
You seek his grave,
Know 'tis as various as yourselves,
Now in the deep, then on the shelves,
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,
Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
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