The Household Book of Poetry

And now we set thee down before
The jealously-unclosing door,
That the favored youth admits
Where the veiled virgin sits
In the bliss of maiden fear,
Waiting our soft tread to hear,
And the music's brisker din
At the bridegroom's entering in,
Entering in, a welcome guest,
To the chamber of his rest.

CHORUS OF MAIDENS.

Now the jocund song is thine,
Bride of David's kingly line!
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth,
And thy shrouded eye resembleth
Violets, when the dews of eve

A moist and tremulous glitter leave
On the bashful, sealed lid!
Close within the bride-veil hid,
Motionless thou sit'st and mute,
Save that, at the soft salute
Of each entering maiden friend,
Thou dost rise and softly bend.

Hark! a brisker, merrier glee!
The door unfolds-'tis he! 'tis he!
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him!
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him!
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting,
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting!

HENRY HART MILMAN.

Epithalamion.

YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to the ayding others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple lays,
But joyed in theyr praise;

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortune's wreck did

rayse,

Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreriment;

Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crowned,
Helpe me mine owne love's 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 shal to me answer, and my echo ring.

Early, before the world's light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the night's uncheerful dampe,
Doe ye awake; and with fresh lustyhed
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 torch 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 loe! the wished day is come at last,

That shal, 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 echo ring.

Bring with you all the nymphs that you can heare,
Both of the rivers and the forests greene,

And of the sea that neighbours to her neare;
All 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, true-love-wise, with a blue silk riband.
And let them make great store of bridale posies;
And let them eke 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 do ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shal to you answer, and your echo

ring.

EPITHALAMION.

Ye nymphs of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver-scaly trouts do tend full well,
And greedy pikes which used therein to feed,
(Those trouts and pikes all others doe excell;)
And ye, likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none do fishes take-

Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight!

335

But first come, ye fayre houres, which were begot
In Jove's sweet paradise of day and night;
Which do the seasons of the year allot;
And all that ever in this world is fayre,

Bynd up the locks the which hang scattered Do make and still repayre!
light,

And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,

That when you come whereas my love doth lie
No blemish she may spie.

And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the dore
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre -
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to de-
voure,

And ye, three handmayds of the Cyprian queene,
The which do still adorn her beauteous pride,
Helpe to adorn my beautifullest bride;
And, as ye her array, still throw between
Some graces to be seene;

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

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

With your steele darts doe chace from coming Now is my love all ready forth to come

neare

Be also present here,

To helpe to decke her, and to helpe to sing,

Let all the virgins, therefore, well awayt;
And ye fresh boys, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare yourselves; for he is comming strayt.

That all the woods may answer, and your echo Set all your things in seemely-good array, ring.

Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time:
The rosy morne long since left Tithon's bed,
All ready to her silver coache to clyme;
And Phoebus 'gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerfull birds do chaunt theyr
laies,

And carroll of love's praise!

The merry larke his 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 daye's merriment.

Ah! my deare love, why do 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 dewy leaves among!

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

Fit for so joyfull day

The joyfulest day that ever sun did see.
Fair 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 Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,

Or sing the thing that mote thy minde delight,
Do not thy servant's simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be mine;
Let all the rest be thine,

Then I thy soverayne prayeses loud will sing,
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr echo
ring.

Harke! how the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud
Their merry musick that resounds from far-
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud
That well agree withouten breach or jar.

That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo But most of all the damzels do delite
ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreame;

And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beame,

More bright than Hesperus his head doth reare.

When they their tymbrels smyte,

And thereunto do daunce and carrol sweet,

That all the sences they do ravish quite;

The whiles the boyes run up and doune the
street,

Crying aloud with strong, confused noyce,
As if it were one voyce:

Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen! they do shout, That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; To which the people standing all about,

As in approvance, do thereto applaud,

And loud advaunce her laud;

And evermore they Hymen, Hymen ! sing,

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly gifts of high degree,

Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,

And stand astonisht, lyke to those which red
Medusae's mazeful hed.

That all the woods them answer, and theyr echo ring. There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity,

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the east.
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.

Her long, loose, yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinkled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,
Do lyke a golden mantle her attyre;

And, being crowned with a girland greene,
Seem 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 do ye still loud her prayses sing,

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 do obey,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial treasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,

Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That all 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 pillars deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this saynt with honour dew,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. That commeth in to you!

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before?
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beauty's grace and vertue's store?
Her goodly eyes lyke saphyres shining bright;
Her forehead ivory white;

With trembling steps and humble reverence
She commeth in before th' Almighty's 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,

Her. cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath The which do endlesse matrimony make;

rudded;

Her lips lyke cherries charming men to byte; Her brest lyke to a bowl of cream uncrudded; Her paps lyke lyllies budded;

Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre; And all her body like a pallace fayre, Ascending up with many a stately stayre, To honour's seat and chastity's sweet bowre. Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze Upon her so to gaze,

Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,

And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,

The choristers the joyous antheme sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo
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,

To which the woods did answer, and your echo And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne,

ring?

Like crimson dyde in grayne:

That all the woods may answer, and your echo Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. ring!

Now all is done: bring home the bride again—
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 than this,
Whom heaven would heape with bliss.
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 walls with wine,
That they may sweat and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye god Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreaths of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can do it best;

The whiles the maydens do theyr carrol sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr echo
ring.

Ring ye the bells, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labours for this day:
This day is holy-do ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may,—
This day the sun 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 choose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare;
Yet never day so long but late would passe.

Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden crest
Appeare out of the east.

Fayre child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes dost lead,
And guidest lovers through the night's sad dread,
How cherefully thou lookest from above,

And seem'st to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight

Of these glad many, which for joy do sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo

ring.

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast;
Enough it is that all the day was youres.
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast;
Now bring the bryde into the brydall bowres.
The night is come, now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lyllies and in violets;
And silken curtains over her display,
And odourd sheets, and arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does lye,
In proud humility!

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the 'flowry grass,
"Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night-ye damsels may be gone,
And leave my love alone;

And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo
ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected, That long daie's labour doest at last defray,

And all my cares which cruell love collected,
Hast summd in one, and cancelled for aye!
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see;

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

From feare of perill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy;

But let the night be calme, and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome;
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lye,
And begot Majesty.

And let the mayds and yongmen cease to sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo ring.

Let no lamenting cryes, nor doleful teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without;
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceived dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadful sights,
Make sudden, sad affrights;

Ne let house-fyres, nor lightning's helples harmes,
Ne let the pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischievous witches with their charmes,
Ne let hob-goblins, names whose sense we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:

Let not the shriech-owle, nor the storke, be heard;
Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells;
Nor damned ghosts, cald up with mighty spells;
Nor griesly vultures make us once affeard.
Ne let th' unpleasant quire of frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.

Let none of these theyr dreary accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr echo
ring.

But let stil silence true night-watches keepe,
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred little winged Loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about the bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shall worke, and snares shall
spread

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize;
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;
And eke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart-
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad genius! in whose gentle hand
The brydale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine;

And the sweet pleasures of theyr love's delight
With secret ayde dost succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night;
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!
Grant that it may so be;

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