English Renaissance Poetry by John Williams

Author:John Williams [Williams, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59017-978-9
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2016-02-08T05:00:00+00:00

PROTHALAMION

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air

Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play

A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay

Hot Titan’s beams, which then did glister fair,

When I (whom sullen care,

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay

In prince’s court, and expectation vain

Of idle hopes, which still do fly away

Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)

Walked forth to ease my pain

Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;

Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,

Was painted all with variable flowers,

And all the meads adorned with dainty gems

Fit to deck maidens’ bowers,

And crown their paramours

Against the bridal day, which is not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

There in a meadow by the river’s side

A flock of nymphs I chancëd to espy,

All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,

With goodly greenish locks all loose untied

As each had been a bride;

And each one had a little wicker basket

Made of fine twigs entrailëd curiously,

In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,

And with fine fingers cropped full feateously

The tender stalks on high.

Of every sort which in that meadow grew

They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue,

The little daisy that at evening closes,

The virgin lily and the primrose true,

With store of vermeil roses,

To deck their bridegrooms’ posies

Against the bridal day, which was not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue

Come softly swimming down along the Lee;

Two fairer birds I yet did never see;

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew

Did never whiter shew

Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be

For love of Leda, whiter did appear;

Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he,

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;

So purely white they were

That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,

Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare

To wet their silken feathers, lest they might

Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,

And mar their beauties bright,

That shone as Heaven’s light,

Against their bridal day, which was not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood

As they came floating on the crystal flood;

Whom when they saw, they stood amazëd still

Their wondering eyes to fill;

Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair

Of fowls so lovely that they sure did deem

Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair

Which through the sky draw Venus’ silver team;

For sure they did not seem

To be begot of any earthly seed,

But rather angels, or of angels’ breed;

Yet were they bred of summer’s-heat, they say.

In sweetest season, when each flower and weed

The earth did fresh array;

So fresh they seemed as day,

Even as their bridal day, which was not long:

Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew

Great store of flowers, the honor of the field,

That to the sense did fragrant odors yield,

All which upon those goodly birds they threw

And all the waves did strew,

That like old Peneus’ waters they did seem

When down along by

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