BELPHEBE, A HUNTRESS.
A splendid passage from SPENSER's Fairy Queen.
EFTSOON there steppèd forth
A goodly lady clad in hunter's weed,
That seemed to be a woman of great worth, And by her stately portance born of heavenly birth.
Her face so fair as flesh it seemed not,
But heavenly portrait of bright angel's hue,
Clear as the sky, withouten blame or blot,
Through goodly mixture of complexions due;
And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew
Like roses in a bed of lilics shed,
The which ambrosial odours from them threw,
And gazer's sense with double pleasure fed,
Able to heal the sick, and to revive the dead.
In her fair eyes two living lamps did flame,
Kindled above at the heavenly Maker's light,
And darted fiery beams out of the same
So passing perceant and so wondrous bright,
That quite bereaved the rash beholder's sight:
In them the blinded god his lustful fire
To kindle oft assayed, but had no might;
For with dread majesty, and awful ire,
She broke his wanton darts, and quenchèd base desire.
Her ivory forehead, full of bounty brave, Like a broad table did itself dispread, For love his lofty triumphs to engrave, And write the battles of his great godhead; All good and honour might therein be read, For there their dwelling was; and when she spake, Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed, And twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake A silver sound, that heavenly music seemed to make.
Upon her eyelids many Graces sate,
Under the shadow of her even brows
Working bellegardes and amorous rétraite,
And every one her with a grace endows,
And every one with meekness to her bows:
So glorious mirror of celestial grace,
And sovereign monument of mortal vows,
How shall frail pen describe her heavenly face, For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace?
So fair, and thousand thousand times more fair,
She seem'd, when she presented was to sight,
And was yclad, for heat of scorching air,
All in a silken camus lily white.
Purfled upon with many a folded plite,
Which all above besprinkled was throughout
With golden aigulets that glistered bright,
Like twinkling stars, and all the skirt about
Was hemmed with golden fringe.
And in her hand a sharp bow spear she held,
And at her back a bow and quiver gay,
Stuff'd with steel-headed darts, wherewith she quell'd
The savage beasts in her victorious play,
Knit with a golden baldrick, which forelay
Athwart her snowy breast, and did divide
Her dainty paps; which like young fruit in May
Now little 'gan to swell, and being tied,
Through her thin weed their places only signified.
Her yellow locks crisped like golden wire, About her shoulders weren loosely shed, And when the wind amongst them did enspire, They waved like a pennon wide disspread, And low behind her back were scattered; And whether art it were or heedless hap, As through the flowering forest rash she fled, In her rude hairs sweet flowers themselves did lap, And flourishing fresh leaves and blossoms did enwrap.
AN APOLOGY FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.
THEY that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know
Whether it be best or no.
So they that are to love inclined,
Sway'd by chance, not choice, or art,
To the first that's fair or kind,
Make a present of their heart:
It is not she that first we love
But whom dying we approve.
To man, that as in th' evening made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring in the gloomy shade
Those little drops of light:
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertain'd his eyes.
But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise ;
His wonder was determined there,
And could no higher rise.
He neither might nor wished to know
A more refulgent light:
For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employed his utmost sight.
THE NAMELESS MOUNTAIN STREAM.
By CHARLES MACKAY.
Up from the shore of the placid lake
Wherein thou tumblest, murmuring low,
Over the meadow and through the brake,
And over the moor where the rushes grow,
I've traced thy course, thou gentle brook:-
I've seen thy life in all thy moods;
I've seen thee lingering in the nook
Of the shady, fragrant, pine-tree woods;
I've seen thee starting and leaping down
The smooth high rocks and boulders brown;
I've track'd thee upwards, upwards still,
From the spot where the lonely birch-tree stands,
Low adown amid shingle and sands,
Over the brow of the ferny hill,
Over the moorland, purple dyed,
Over the rifts of granite grey,
Up to thy source on the mountain side,
Far away-oh, far away.
Beautiful stream! By rock and dell,
There's not an inch in all thy course
I have not tracked. I know thee well;
I know where blossoms the yellow gorse,
I know where waves the pale blue-bell,
And where the hidden violets dwell.
I know where the foxglove rears its head,
And where the heather tufts are spread;
I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,
And the white valerians load the gale.
I know the spot where the bees love best,
And where the linnet has built her nest.
I know the bushes the grouse frequent,
And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.
I know each tree to thy fountain head-
The lady-birches, slim and fair:
The feathery larch, the rowans red,
The brambles trailing their tangled hair.
And each is linked to my waking thought
By some remembrance fancy-fraught.
I know the pools where the trout are found,
The happy trout, untouch'd by me.
I know the basins, smooth and round,
Worn by thy ceaseless industry,
Out of the hard and stubborn stone
Fair clear basins where nymphs might float;
And where in the noon-time all alone
The brisk bold robin cleans his coat.
I know thy voice: I've heard thee sing
Many a soft and plaintive tune,
Like a lover's song in life's young spring,
Or Endymion's to the moon.
I've heard it deepen to a roar
When thou wert swollen by Autumn rains,
And rush'd from the hill-tops to the plains,
A loud and passionate orator.
I've spoken to thee-and thou to me-
At morn, or noon, or closing night!
And ever the voice of thy minstrelsy
Has been companion of delight.
Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,
Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,
Ever, since Time its course begun,
Without a record, without a name.
I ask'd the shepherd on the hill-
He knew thee but as a common rill;
I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—
She knew thee but as a running water;
I ask'd the boatman on the shore,
He was never ask'd to tell before-
Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.
Yet, stream so dear to me alone,
I prize and cherish thee none the less
That thou flow'st unseen, unpraised, unknown,
In the unfrequented wilderness.
Though none admire and lay to heart
How good and beautiful thou art,
Thy flowerets bloom, thy waters run,
And the free birds chant thy benison.
Beauty is beauty, though unseen;
And those who live it all their days,
Find meet reward in their soul serene,
And the inner voice of prayer and praise.
Like thee, fair streamlet, undefiled,
Many a human virtue dwells,
Unknown of men in the distant dells,
Or hides in the coverts of the wild.
Many a mind of richest worth,
Whether of high or of low estate,
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