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 princes’ court, and expectation vain |
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away |
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain), |
Walk’d 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 adorn’d 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 chancéd 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, entrailéd curiously, |
In which they gather’d flowers to fill
their flasket, |
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously |
The tender stalks on high. |
Of every sort which in that meadow grew |
They gather’d 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 strow |
Did never whiter show, |
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, |
Seem’d 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 amazéd
still, |
Their wondering eyes to fill; |
Them seem’d 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 seem’d 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 honour of the
field, |
That to the sense did fragrant odours
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 pleasant Tempe’s shore |
Scatter’d with flowers, through Thessaly
they stream, |
That they appear, through lilies’ plenteous
store, |
Like a bride’s chamber-floor. |
Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands
bound |
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they
found, |
The which presenting all in trim array, |
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they
crown’d; |
While one did sing this lay |
Prepared against that day, |
Against their bridal day, which was not
long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
|
‘Ye gentle birds! the world’s fair
ornament, |
And Heaven’s glory, whom this happy hour |
Doth lead unto your lovers’ blissful bower, |
Joy may you have, and gentle heart’s
content |
Of your love’s complement; |
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, |
With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, |
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to
remove |
All love’s dislike, and friendship’s faulty
guile |
For ever to assoil. |
Let endless peace your steadfast hearts
accord, |
And blessed plenty wait upon your board; |
And let your bed with pleasures chaste
abound, |
That fruitful issue may to you afford |
Which may your foes confound, |
And make your joys redound |
Upon your bridal day, which is not long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.’
|
So ended she; and all the rest around |
To her redoubled that her undersong, |
Which said their bridal day should not be
long: |
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground |
Their accents did resound. |
So forth those joyous birds did pass along |
Adown the lee that to them murmur’d low, |
As he would speak but that he lack’d a
tongue, |
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, |
Making his stream run slow. |
And all the fowl which in his flood did
dwell |
’Gan flock about these twain, that did
excel |
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend |
The lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well, |
Did on those two attend, |
And their best service lend |
Against their wedding day, which was not
long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song. |
At length they all to merry London came, |
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, |
That to me gave this life’s first native
source, |
Though from another place I take my name, |
An house of ancient fame: |
There when they came whereas those bricky
towers |
The which on Thames’ broad aged back do
ride, |
Where now the studious lawyers have their
bowers, |
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to
bide, |
Till they decay’d through pride; |
Next whereunto there stands a stately
place, |
Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly grace |
Of that great lord, which therein wont to
dwell, |
Whose want too well now feels my friendless
case; |
But ah! here fits not well |
Old woes, but joys to tell |
Against the bridal day, which is not long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
|
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, |
Great England’s glory and the world’s wide
wonder, |
Whose dreadful name late thro’ all Spain
did thunder, |
And Hercules’ two pillars standing near |
Did make to quake and fear: |
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! |
That fillest England with thy triumphs’
fame |
Joy have thou of thy noble victory, |
And endless happiness of thine own name |
That promiseth the same; |
That through thy prowess and victorious
arms |
Thy country may be freed from foreign
harms, |
And great Eliza’s glorious name may ring |
Through all the world, fill’d with thy wide
alarms |
Which some brave Muse may sing |
To ages following, |
Upon the bridal day, which is not long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
|
From those high towers this noble lord
issúing |
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair |
In th’ ocean billows he hath bathéd fair, |
Descended to the river’s open viewing |
With a great train ensuing. |
Above the rest were goodly to be seen |
Two gentle knights of lovely face and
feature, |
Beseeming well the bower of any queen, |
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, |
Fit for so goodly stature, |
That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in
sight |
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens
bright; |
They two, forth pacing to the river’s side, |
Received those two fair brides, their
love’s delight; |
Which, at th’ appointed tide, |
Each one did make his bride |
Against their bridal day, which is not
long: |
Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my
song.
|
Edmund Spenser
| Classic Poems |
|
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