A softly swelling hill, with myrtles crown'd
(Myrtles to Venus algates* sacred been),
Hight Acidale, the fairest spot on ground,
For ever fragrant and for ever green,
O'erlooks the windings of a shady vale,
By beauty form'd for amorous regale.
Was ever hill so sweet as sweetest Acidale?
All down the sides, the sides profuse of flowers,
A hundred rills, in shining mazes, flow
Through mossy grottos, amaranthine bowers,
And form a laughing flood in vale below:
Where oft their limbs the Loves and Graces bay +
(When Summer sheds insufferable day), [play.
And sport and dive and flounce in wantonness of
No noise o'ercomes the silence of the shades,
Save short-breathed vows, the dear excess of joy;
Or harmless giggle of the youths and maids,
Who yield obeisance to the Cyprian boy :
Or lute, soft-sighing in the passing gale;
Or fountain, gurgling down the sacred vale;
Or hymn to beauty's queen, or lover's tender tale.
Here Venus revels, here maintains her court
In light festivity and gladsome game:
The young and gay, in frolic troops resort,
Withouten censure and withouten blame.
In pleasure steep'd, and dancing in delight,
Night steals upon the day, the day on night:
Each knight his lady loves; each lady loves her
knight.
Where lives the man (if such a man there be),
In idle wilderness or desert drear,
To beauty's sacred power an enemy?
Let foul fiends harrow* him; I'll drop no tear.
I deem that carl †, by beauty's power unmoved,
Hated of heaven, of none but hell approved:
O may he never love, O never be beloved!
Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, May!
Unconscious of love's nectar-tickling sting,
And, unrelenting, cold to Beauty's ray;
Beauty the mother and the child of Spring!
Beauty and Wit declare the sexes even;
Beauty to woman, wit to man is given;
Neither the slime of earth, but each the fire of
heaven.
Alliance sweet! let beauty wit approve,
As flowers to sunshine ope the ready breast:
Wit Beauty loves, and nothing else can love:
The best alone is grateful to the best.
Perfection has no other parallel !
Can light with darkness, doves with ravens dwell?
As soon, perdie‡, shall heaven communion hold
I sing to you, who love alone for love:
For gold the beauteous fools (O fools besure!) Can win; though brighter Wit shall never move: But Folly is to Wit the certain cure.
Cursed be the men (or be they young or old), Cursed be the women, who themselves have sold To the detested bed for lucre base of gold.
Not Julia such: she higher honour deem'd
To languish in the Sulmo poet's arms
Than, by the potentates of earth esteem'd,
To give to sceptres and to crowns her charms.
Not Laura such: in sweet Vauclusa's vale
She listen'd to her Petrarch's amorous tale.
But did poor Colin Clout* o'er Rosalind prevail?
Howe'er that be; in Acidalian shade †,
Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day:
No dreams of banishment his loves invade;
Encircled in eternity of May.
Here Petrarch with his Laura, soft reclined
On violets, gives sorrow to the wind:
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind.
Pipe on, thou sweetest of the' Arcadian train,
That e'er with tuneful breath inform'd the quill:
Pipe on, of lovers the most loving swain!
Of bliss and melody O take thy fill.
+ These three celebrated poets and lovers were all of them unhappy in their amours. Ovid was banished on account of his passion for Julia. Death deprived Petrarch of his beloved Laura very early; as he himself tells us in his account of his own life. These are his words- Amore acerrimo, sed unico et honesto, in adolescentia laboravi, et diutius laborassem, nisi jam tepescentem ignem mors acerba, sed utilis, extinxisset.' See his Works, Basil, fol. Tom. 1. Yet others say, she married another person; which is scarce probable; since Petrarch lamented her death for ten years afterwards, as appears from Sonetto 313, with a most uncommon ardour of passion. Thomasinus, in his curious book, called Petrarcha Redivivus,' has given us two prints of Laura, with an account of her family, their loves, and the sweet retirement in Vaucluse. As for Spenser, we may conclude that his love for Rosalinda proved unsuccessful from the pathetical complaints, in several of his poems, of her cruelty. The author, therefore, thought it only a poetical kind of justice to reward them in this ima ginary retreat of Lovers, for the misfortunes they really suffered here, on account of their passions.
Ne envy I, if dear Ianthe smile,
Though low my numbers, and though rude my
Ne quit for Acidale fair Albion's happy isle.
Come then, Ianthe! milder than the Spring,
And grateful as the rosy month of May,
O come; the birds the hymn of Nature sing,
Enchanting wild, from every bush and spray :
Swell the green germs and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promise of the future wine,
The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine!
Let us our steps direct where father Thames,
In silver windings, draws his humid train,
And pours, where'er he rolls his naval stream,
Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.
Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray,
(Ah, why so long from Isis' banks away!)
Where thousand damsels dance, and thousand
shepherds play?
Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat,
Embosom'd, Surrey, in thy verdant vale,
At once the Muses' and the Graces' seat!
There gently listen to my faithful tale.
Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove,
Or taste the odours of the mazy grove:
Hark how the turtles coo: Ilanguish too with love.
Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes,
Love steals his silent arrows on my breast;
Nor falls of water nor enamel'd greens
Can soothe my anguish or invite to rest.
You, dear Ianthe, you alone impart
Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart :
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of my heart.
With line of silk, with hook of barbed steel,
Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay,
And from the water's crystal bosom steal
Upon the grassy bank the finny prey:
The perch, with purple speckled manifold;
The eel, in silver labyrinth self-roll'd,
[gold. And carp, all burnish'd o'er with drops of scaly
Or shall the meads invite, with Iris hues
And Nature's pencil gay diversified
(For now the Sun has lick'd away the dews),
Fair flushing and bedeck'd like virgin bride?
Thither (for they invite us) we'll repair,
Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair)
A posy for thy breast, a garland for thy hair.
Fair is the lily, clad in balmy snow;
Sweet is the rose, of Spring the smiling eye;
Nipp'd by the winds, their heads the lilies bow;
Cropp'd by the hand, the roses fade and die.
Though now in pride of youth and beauty dress'd,
O think, Ianthe, cruel Time lays waste
The roses of the cheek, the lilies of the breast.
Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve
The present freshness of thy springing prime :
Bestow thy graces on the god of Love,
Too precious for the wither'd arms of Time.
In chaste endearments, innocently gay,
Ianthe! now, now love thy Spring away;
Ere cold October blasts despoil the bloom of May.
Now up the chalky mazes of yon hill,
With grateful diligence, we wind our way;
What opening scenes our ravish'd senses fill,
And wide their rural luxury display!
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