The Mower's Song

How My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,
Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

The Mower to the Glow Worms

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;

Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grass’s fall;

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.

The Mower against Gardens

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use,
Did after him the world seduce,
And from the fields the flowers and plants allure,
Where nature was most plain and pure.
He first enclosed within the gardens square
A dead and standing pool of air,
And a more luscious earth for them did knead,
Which stupified them while it fed.
The pink grew then as double as his mind;
The nutriment did change the kind.
With strange perfumes he did the roses taint,
And flowers themselves were taught to paint.
The tulip, white, did for complexion seek,
And learned to interline its cheek:
Its onion root they then so high did hold,
That one was for a meadow sold.
Another world was searched, through oceans new,
To find the Marvel of Peru.
And yet these rarities might be allowed
To man, that sovereign thing and proud,
Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,
Forbidden mixtures there to see.
No plant now knew the stock from which it came;
He grafts upon the wild the tame:
That th’ uncertain and adulterate fruit
Might put the palate in dispute.
His green seraglio has its eunuchs too,
Lest any tyrant him outdo.
And in the cherry he does nature vex,
To procreate without a sex.
’Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,
While the sweet fields do lie forgot:
Where willing nature does to all dispense
A wild and fragrant innocence:
And fauns and fairies do the meadows till,
More by their presence than their skill.
Their statues, polished by some ancient hand,
May to adorn the gardens stand:
But howsoe’er the figures do excel,
The gods themselves with us do dwell.

Marvell's  Horatian Ode

One of the most ambitious poems in the English language and perhaps the only truly successful ode is his "Horatian on Cromwell's Return from Ireland."  Ordinarily I don't like to talk too much about a poem, but I am willing to talk this one to death.  Read it carefully, bearing in mind that Marvell was a Roundhead.  Yet he makes the execution of Charles the center--in all senses--of the poem.  He shows such a fairness and such a tragic sense, I am struck with admiration for him every time I read this.

THE forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star:

And like the three-fork'd lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:

For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould;

Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain--
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak--

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Caresbrooke's narrow case;

That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced power:
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust.

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic's hand--
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having kill'd, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch;
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,
If thus he crowns each year?

As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour'd mind,
But, from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

Spleen

(For Arthur Symons)

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,

And all my memories were put to sleep.

All day till evening I watched it change.

Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired

Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me

The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became

Oblivion, until the evening came

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,

With all my memories that could not sleep.

Here is another, Ad manus puellae

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.

I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?

They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?

I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.

Many of the Decadents were drawn, for reasons both sensuous and spiritual (it is not always hard to distinguish) to the Roman Church.  Here is a rare religious poem of Dowson,

                 Benedictio Domini

Ballads are story telling poems or songs written in rhyming quatrains, alternating lines of 4 and 3 stresses.  Sometimes these shorter lines are combined into a longer line known as a fourteener, because if it ends blunt with a masculine rhyme, it has 14 syllables.  Here, to illustrate the form, are the first three lines of a famous literary specimen by Oscar Wilde:

He did not wear his scarlet coat for blood and wine are red

And blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead

The poor dead woman whom he loved and murdered in her bed.

I described this as a literary specimen, because many ballads are rather subliterary or folkish.  This very popular English and Scottish form was taken to America and it thrived in Appalachia.  In describing ballads as subliterary I do not at all mean any disrespect.  They can be quite sophisticated in narrative technique.  A primitive pop ballad often tells the whole story from beginning to end, while a good ballad has boiled down the essence to the point that the listener can be confused if he has not heard the song before.

Let's take an early one.  This version of Barbara Allen was collected and possibly prettified by Bishop Percy.  As I recall, it is the version sung by that great patriotic songster, Peter Seeger.

• In Scarlet Town where I was born
  There was a fair maid dwelling
  Made every youth cry 'Well-a-day'
  Her name was Barbara Allen
• 'Twas in the merry month of May
  When the green buds they were swelling
  Sweet William on his death-bed lay
  For the love of Barbara AllenHe sent his servant to the town
  To the place where she was dwelling
  Said, Master, he bid you to him
  If your name be Barbara AllenThen slowly slowly she got up
  And slowly when she nighed him
  And when she drew the curtain back
  Said, Young man, I think you're dyingOh yes I'm sick, I'm very very sick
  And I never can be better
  Until I have the love of one
  The love of Barbara Allen

  Then slowly slowly she got up
  And he trembled like an aspen
  'Tis vain 'tis vain, young man, Said she
  To fain for Barbara Allen

  She walked out in a green green field
  She heard his death bells knelling
  At every toll they seemed to say
  Cold-hearted Barbara Allen

  Her eyes looked east, her eyes looked west
  She saw his pale corpse coming
  Said, Bearers oh bearers, pray put him down
  So I may look upon him

  The more she looked the more she grieved
  Until she burst out crying
  O bearers, o bearers, pray take him away
  For I am now a-dying

  Oh father, oh father, go dig my grave
  Go dig it deep and narrow
  Sweet William he died for me today
  I'll die for him tomorrow

  They buried her in the old churchyard
  Sweet William's grave was nigh her
  And from his heart grew a red red rose
  And from her heart a briar

  They grew and they grew the old churchyard wall
  Till they couldn't grow no higher
  Until they tied a true lovers' knot
  The red rose and the briar

  
  

  "Barbara Allen" is not especially useful for a discussion of narrative clarity, because the tradition is obscure.  There is a theory I read years ago in an academic volume, that as cultures progress songs become more articulate and coherent.  More articulate in the sense that it is important to understand what words are being sung, and coherent in the sense of a clear narrative presentation.  A lot of African songs consist of the repetition of nonsense sounds, poorly articulated, interpolated with statements like, "Building me a boat today, unhunh, building me a boat.  Contrast this with the Psalms and then contrast the Psalms with, say, the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, a beautifully constructed narrative.  I think it was actually the late Allan Lomax who argued that British Ballads take this one step beyond--as by the way, Pindar does and the writers of Greek tragedy in their lyrics--and you can take the narrative background for granted and either suppress boring transitional details or not fill in the picture because the singer is concentrating on other things.
  
  Take this early song, not strictly a ballad, though if we leave out the exclamations it has the form, "Edward", which we all had to read in college.  It is absolutely chilling.  We don't know exactly what mon's plot was but it is Macbethian in its evil.
  
  Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid,
  Edward, Edward?
  Why dois your brand sae drap wi' bluid?
  And why sae sad gang ye, O?
  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
  And I had nae mair bot hee, O.
  
  Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
  Edward, Edward,
  Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
  My deir son I tell thee, O.
  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
  That erst was sae fair and frie, O.
  
  Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
  Edward, Edward,
  Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair,
  Sum other dule ye drie, O.
  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
  Mither, mither,
  O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
  Alas, and wae is mee, O.
  
  And whatten penance wul ye drie for that,
  Edward, Edward?
  And whatten penance will ye drie for that?
  My deir son, now tell me, O.
  Ile set my feit in yonder boat,
  Mither, mither,
  Il set my feit in yonder boat,
  And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.
  
  And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',
  That were sae fair to see, O?
  Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
  Mither, mither,
  Ile let thame stand tul they doun fa',
  For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.
  
  And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife,
  Whan ye gang ovir the sea, O?
  The warldis room, late them beg thrae life,
  Mither, mither,
  The warldis room, let them beg thrae life,
  For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.
  
  And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir,
  Edward, Edward?
  And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir?
  My deir son, now tell mee, O.
  The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
  Mither, mither,
  The curse of hell frae me sall ye beir,
  Sic counseils ye gave to me, O.

  Another favorite of min.

                Johnie Armstrong

  	 THERE dwelt a man in faire Westmerland,
  	 Ionn  Armestrong men did him call,
  	 He had nither lands nor rents coming in,
  	 Yet he kept eight score men in his hall.
  	 He had horse and harness for them all,
  	 Goodly steeds were all milke-white;
  	 O the golden bands an about their necks,
  	 And their weapons, they were all alike.
  	 Newes then was brought unto the king
  	 That there was sicke a won as hee,
  	 That liv d lyke a bold out-law,
  	 And robb d all the north country.
  	 The king he writt an a letter then,
  	 A letter which was large and long;
  	 He sign d it with his owne hand,
  	 And he promised to doe him no wrong.
  	 When this letter came Ionn  untill,
  	 His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree:
  	 ‘Never was I sent for before any king,
  	 My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee.
  	 ‘And if wee goe the king before,
  	 I would we went most orderly;
  	 Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak,
  	 Laced with silver laces three.
  	 ‘Every won of you shall have his velvett coat,
  	 Laced with silver lace so white;
  	 O the golden bands an about your necks,
  	 Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.’
  	 By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock,
  	 Towards Edenburough gon was hee,
  	 And with him all his eight score men;
  	 Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see!
  	 When Ionn  came befower the king,
  	 He fell downe on his knee;
  	 ‘O pardon, my soveraigne leige,’ he said,
  	 ‘O pardon my eight score men and mee!’
  	 ‘Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong,
  	 For thy eight score men nor thee;
  	 For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock,
  	 Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree.’
  	 But Ionn  looke’d over his left shoulder,
  	 Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee!
  	 Saying, Asking grace of a graceles face-+--+-
  	 Why there is none for you nor me.
  	 But Ionn  had a bright sword by his side,
  	 And it was made of the mettle so free,
  	 That had not the king, stept his foot aside,
  	 He had smitten his head from his faire bodd .
  	 Saying, Fight on, my merry men all,
  	 And see that none of you be taine;
  	 For rather then men shall say we were hange’d,
  	 Let them report how we were slaine.
  	 Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose,
  	 And so besett poore Ionn  rounde,
  	 That fowerscore and tenn of Ionn s best men
  	 Lay gasping all upon the ground.
  	 Then like a mad man Ionn  laide about,
  	 And like a mad man then fought hee,
  	 Untill a falce Scot came Ionn  behinde,
  	 And runn him through the faire boddee.
  	 Saying, Fight on, my merry men all,
  	 And see that none of you be taine;
  	 For I will stand by and bleed but awhile,
  	 And then will I come and fight againe.
  	 Newes then was brought to young Ionn  Armestrong,
  	 As he stood by his nurses knee,
  	 Who vowed if ere he live’d for to be a man,
  	 O the treacherous Scots revengd hee’d be.

  
  

  
  

[KING.]  Welcome, Don Balthazar!  Welcome nephew!
    And thou, Horatio, thou art welcome too!
    Young prince, although thy fathers hard misdeedes
    In keeping backe the tribute that he owes
    Deserue but euill measure at our hands,
    Yet shalt thou know that Spaine is honorable.

  BALT.  The trespasse that my father made in peace
    Is now controlde by fortune of the warres;
    And cards once dealt, it bootes not aske why so.
    His men are slaine,--a weakening to his realme;
    His colours ceaz'd,--a blot vnto his name;
    His sonne distrest,--a corsiue to his hart;
    These punishments may cleare his late offence.

  KING.  I, Balthazar, if he obserue this truce,
    Our peace will grow the stronger for these warres.
    Meane-while liue thou, though not in libertie,
    Yet free from bearing any seruile yoake;
    For in our hearing thy deserts were great.
    And in our sight thy-selfe art gratious.

  BALT.  And I shall studie to deserue this grace.

  KING.  But tell me,--for their holding makes me doubt:
    To Which of these twaine art thou prisoner?

  LOR.  To me, my liege.

  HOR.                   To me, my soueraigne.

  LOR.  This hand first tooke his courser by the raines.

  HOR.  But first my launce did put him from his horse.

  LOR.  I ceaz'd the weapon and enioyde it first.

  HOR.  But first I forc'd him lay his weapons downe.

  KING. Let goe his arm, vpon my priviledge!

                  Let him goe.

    Say, worthy prince:  to whether didst thou yeeld?

Here's a bit of early Marlowe that indicates the poet's interest in having an animated conversation.  It's livelier than Kyd for the most part but not that big an improvement:

MYCETES. Come, my Meander, let us to this gear.
I tell you true, my heart is swoln with wrath
On this same thievish villain Tamburlaine,
And of  that false Cosroe, my traitorous brother.
Would it not grieve a king to be so abus'd,
And have a thousand horsemen ta'en away?
And, which is worse, to have his diadem
Sought for by such scald knaves as love him not?
I think it would:  well, then, by heavens I swear,
Aurora shall not peep out of her doors,
But I will have Cosroe by the head,
And kill proud Tamburlaine with point of sword.
Tell you the rest, Meander:  I have said.

Contrast that with the following scrap from Doctor Faustus:

MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens;
For, when we hear one rack the name of God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,
We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul;
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity,
And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.

FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath
Already done; and holds this principle,
There is no chief but only Belzebub;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
This word "damnation" terrifies not him,
For he confounds hell in Elysium:
His ghost be with the old philosophers!
But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls,
Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord?

MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?

MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence;
For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer?

MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,
And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd?

MEPHIST. In hell.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell?

MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:
Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,
In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?
O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul!

Note the broken lines, and note the way he shapes the rhetorical flow of the speech.

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
 Guilty of dust and sin.
 But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
 From my first entrance in,
 Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
 If I lack'd anything.

 "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
 Love said, "You shall be he."
 "I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
 I cannot look on thee."
 Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
 "Who made the eyes but I?"

 "Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
 Go where it doth deserve."
 "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
 "My dear, then I will serve."
 "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
 So I did sit and eat.

The World

by Henry Vaughan

Johnson's best known poem is:

By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross

Sombre and rich, the skies ;

Great glooms, and starry plains.

Gently the night wind sighs ;

Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings

Around me : and around

The saddest of all kings

Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides

Hard by his own Whitehall.

Only the night wind glides:

No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court : and yet,

The stars his courtiers are :

Stars in their stations set;

And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone,

The fair and fatal king :

Dark night is all his own,

That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate :

The stars ; or those sad eyes ?

Which are more still and great :

Those brows, or the dark skies ?

Although his whole heart yearn

In passionate tragedy,

Never was face so stern

With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death

By beauty made amends :

The passing of his breath

Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless ? Nay :

Through death, life grew sublime.

Speak after sentence ? Yea :

And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head

Bare to the stars of doom ;

He triumphs now, the dead,

Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,

Vexed in the world's employ :

His soul was of the saints;

And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe !

Men hunger for thy grace :

And through the night I go,

Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps,

When all the cries are still,

The stars and heavenly deeps

Work out a perfect will.

Here is a short piece called,

Precept of Silence

I know you: solitary griefs,
Desolate passions, aching hours!
I know you: tremulous beliefs,
Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers!

The winds are sometimes sad to me;
The starry spaces, full of fear:
Mine is the sorrow of the sea,
And mine the sigh of places drear.

Some players upon plaintive strings
Publish their wistfulness abroad:
I have not spoken of these things,
Save to one man, and unto God.

ANOTHER

Cadgwith

My windows open to the autumn night, 

In vain I watched for sleep to visit me; 

How should sleep dull mine ears, and dim my sight, 

Who saw the stars, and listened to the sea ? 

Ah, how the City of our God is fair! 

If, without sea, and starless though it be, 

For joy of the majestic beauty there, 

Men shall not miss the stars, nor mourn the sea.

I could not find  online texts of Dryden's Juvenal to crib from.  When I do, I'll continue the discussion of satire.

Even used in the broadest sense, satire is not comic parody or even mere raillery.  Satire has a serious purpose--to hold up to ridicule the foibles and follies of the time and to cause the reader to use the satire as a mirror in which to glimpse his own foolishness.  I am not, at least at this time, to bore you by tracing the history of Satire back to Juvenal, Horace, Lucilius, and their Greek inspirations (though the Romans did quite rightly claim the genre as wholly their own).  Let us instead go to a satiric poem that is not really a satire in the strict sense.

This is Lady Psyche's song, from Gilbert's Princess Ida, in which she expounds both Darwinism and feminism.  When E.C. Kopff and I once attended a performance in Boulder, the program advised us that the work was only being performed as an historical artifact because they were committed to producing all the works of Gilbert and Sullivan.  Under no circumstances was anyone to find it funny.  I fear we both laughed so hard we almost got ejected.

A Lady fair, of lineage high,

Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by.

The Maid was radiant as the sun,

The Ape was a most unsightly one –

So it would not do –

His scheme fell through,

For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,

Expressed such terror

At his monstrous error,

That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape,

The picture of a disconcerted Ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,

He shaved his bristles and he docked his tail,

He grew mustachios, and he took his tub,

And he paid a guinea to a toilet club –

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through –

For the Maid was Beauty’s fairest Queen,

With golden tresses,

Like a real princess’s,

While the Ape, despite his razor keen,

Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits,

He crammed his feet into bright tight boots –

And to start in life on a brand-new plan,

He christened himself Darwinian Man!

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through –

For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,

Was a radiant Being,

With brain far-seeing –

While Darwinian Man, though well-behaved,2

At best is only a monkey shaved!

This form falls into two parts, an octave of 8 lines and a sestet of 6.  The octave has a complex rhyme scheme that seems to hold the section together:  abbaabba.

The sestet may take a number of different forms.  Among the more common are: cdecde or cdcdcd or, as below, cdcdee

Here is an early and deservedly famous example by the Elizabethan courtier and soldier, Sir Philip Sidney, from his cycle, Astrophel and Stella:

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks;  thy languisht grace
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?

Here is a slightly later poem by the Scottish poet William Drummond, remembered today mostly for his reminiscences of Ben Jonson who visited him, but not a bad poet in his own right who had more than a few happy thoughts.

TO HIS LUTE.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

A few notes on Drummond.  He was a devoted lute-player, as this poem suggests.  Ramage is a lovely word, meaning originally the branch-work of a tree but later the sounds of birds you hear in the branches.  The turtle, as all readers of the Authorized Version known, is the turtle dove, not the amphibian.  I first came across this poem in Palgrave's once widely popular Golden Treasury, a fine anthology that reflects Palgrave's taste for melodious verse.

Sonnets have also been used for quite serious purposes, as the sonnets of Milton and Wordsworth  show.  Here is a once-famous poem of the novelist George Meredith, which in its short compass has some of the majesty of an epic.

Lucifer in Starlight

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned,
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened,
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reached a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.

As a special treat, here is a sonnet of Petrarch.  Note how the music and structure of the verse does not sound contrived or insincere.  A good translation by Bernard Bergonzi follows:

Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni,
dopo le notti vaneggiando spese,
con quel fero desio ch'al cor s'accese,
mirando gli atti per mio mal sí adorni,

piacciati omai col Tuo lume ch'io torni
ad altra vita et a piú belle imprese,
sí ch'avendo le reti indarno tese,
il mio duro adversario se ne scorni.

Or volge, Signor mio, l'undecimo anno
ch'i' fui sommesso al dispietato giogo
che sopra i piú soggetti è piú feroce.

Miserere del mio non degno affanno;
reduci i pensier' vaghi a miglior luogo;
ramenta lor come oggi fusti in croce.

Father in heaven, after each lost day,
Each night spent raving with that fierce desire
Which in my heart has kindled fire
Seeing your acts adorned for my dismay;

Grant henceforth that I turn, within your light
To another life and deeds more truly fair,
So having spread to no avail the snare
My bitter foe might hold it in despite.

The elventh year, my Lord, has now come round
Since I was yoked beneath the heavy trace
That on the meekest weighs most cruelly.

Pity the abject plight where I am found;
Return my straying thoughts to a nobler place;
Show them this day you were on Calvary.

Sonnet 98, Shakespeare

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Sonnet 73, Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 7, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale.
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he slings ;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale ;
The adder all her slough away she slings ;
The swift swallow pursueth the fliës smale
The busy bee her honey now she mings ;
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs !

"The Yellow Hammer," by John Clare

When shall I see the white thorn leaves agen
And yellowhammers gath'ring the dry bents
By the dyke side on stilly moor or fen
Feathered wi love and natures good intents
Rude is the nest this Architect invents
Rural the place wi cart ruts by dyke side
Dead grass, horse hair and downy headed bents
Tied to dead thistles she doth well provide
Close to a hill o' ants where cowslips bloom
And shed o'er meadows far their sweet perfume
In early Spring when winds blow chilly cold
The yellowhammer trailing grass will come
To fix a place and choose an early home
With yellow breast and head of solid gold.