I Copper-land was cald, but some will have’t to be
From the old Britans brought, for Cop they use to call 147
The tops of many hils, which I am stor’d withall.
Then Eskdale mine ally, and Niterdale so nam’d,
Of floods from you that flow, as Borowdale most fam’d, 150
With Wasdale walled in, with hills on every side,
Hows’ever ye extend within your wasts so wide,
For th’surface of a soyle, a Copland, Copland cry,
Till to your shouts the hills with ecchoes all reply.
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly every hill, 155
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring vallies fill;
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountaines threw,
From whom as soone againe, the sound Dunbalrase drew,
From whose stone-trophied head, it on to Wendrosse went, 159
Which tow’rds the sea againe, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sayling to the sea, told it in Egremound,
Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with ecchoes loud and long
Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.
Whence soone the Muse proceeds, to find out fresher springs, 165
Where Darwent her cleere fount from Borowdale that brings,
Doth quickly cast her selfe into an ample lake,
And with Thurls mighty mere, betweene them two doe make
An island, which the name from Darwent doth derive,
Within whose secret breast nice Nature doth contrive, 170
That mighty copper myne, which not without its vaines,
Of gold and silver found, it happily obtaines
Of royaltie the name, the richest of them all
That Britan bringeth forth, which royall she doth call.
Of Borowdale her dam, of her owne named isle, 175
As of her royall mynes, this river proud the while,
Keepes on her course to sea, and in her way doth win
Cleere Coker her compeere, which at her comming in,
Gives Coker-mouth the name, by standing at her fall,
Into faire Darwents banks, when Darwent therewithall, 180
Runnes on her watry race, and for her greater fame,
Of Neptune doth obtaine a haven of her name,
When of the Cambrian Hills, proud Skiddo that doth show
The high’st, respecting whom, the other be but low,
Perceiving with the floods, and forrests, how it far’d, 185
And all their severall tales substantially had heard,
And of the mountaine kind, as of all other he,
Most like Pernassus selfe that is suppos’d to be,
Having a double head, as hath that sacred mount,
Which those nine sacred nymphs held in so hie account, 190
Bethinketh of himselfe what he might justly say,
When to them all he thus his beauties doth display.
The rough Hibernian sea, I proudly overlooke,
Amongst the scattered rocks, and there is not a nooke,
But from my glorious height into its depth I pry, 195
Great hills farre under me, but as my pages lye;
And when my helme of clouds upon my head I take,
At very sight thereof, immediatly I make
Th’inhabitants about, tempestuous stormes to feare,
And for faire weather looke, when as my top is cleere; 200
Great Fournesse mighty fells, I on my south survay:
So likewise on the north, Albania makes me way,
Her countries to behold, when Scurfell from the skie,
That Anadale doth crowne, with a most amorous eye,
Salutes me every day, or at my pride lookes grim, 205
Oft threatning me with clouds, as I oft threatning him:
So likewise to the east, that rew of mountaines tall,
Which we our English Alpes may very aptly call,
That Scotland here with us, and England doe divide,
As those, whence we them name upon the other side,
Doe Italy, and France, these mountaines heere of ours, 211
That looke farre off like clouds, shap’t with embattelled towers,
Much envy my estate, and somewhat higher be,
By lifting up their heads, to stare and gaze at me.
Cleere Darwent dancing on, I looke at from above,
As some enamoured youth, being deeply struck in love, 216
His mistris doth behold, and every beauty notes;
Who as shee to her fall, through fells and vallies flotes,
Oft lifts her limber selfe above her banks to view,
How my brave by-clift top, doth still her course pursue. 220
O all yee topick gods, that doe inhabite here,
To whom the Romans did, those ancient altars reare,
Oft found upon those hills, now sunke into the soyles,
Which they for trophies left of their victorious spoyles,
Ye genii of these floods, these mountaines, and these dales, 225
That with poore shepheards pipes, and harmlesse heardsmans tales
Have often pleased been, still guard me day and night,
And hold me Skidow still, the place of your delight.
This speech by Skidow spoke, the Muse makes forth againe,
Tow’rds where the in-borne floods, cleere Eden intertaine, 230
To Cumberland com’n in, from the Westmerian wasts,
Where as the readyest way to Carlill, as shee casts,
Shee with two wood-nymphs meets, the first is great and wilde,
And Westward Forrest hight; the other but a childe,
Compared with her phere, and Inglewood is cald, 235
Both in their pleasant scites, most happily instald.
What sylvan is there seene, and be she nere so coy,
Whose pleasures to the full, these nymphs doe not enjoy,
And like Dianas selfe, so truly living chast?
For seldome any tract, doth crosse their waylesse waste, 240
With many a lustie leape, the shagged satyrs show
Them pastime every day, both from the meres below,
And hils on every side, that neatly hemme them in;
The blushing morne to breake, but hardly doth begin,
But that the ramping goats, swift deere, and harmelesse sheepe, 245
Which there their owners know, but no man hath to keepe,
The dales doe over-spread, by them like motley made;
But Westward of the two, by her more widened slade,
Of more abundance boasts, as of those mighty mynes,
Which in her verge she hath: but that whereby she shines, 250
Is her two daintie floods, which from two hils doe flow,
Which in her selfe she hath, whose banks doe bound her so
Upon the north and south, as that she seemes to be
Much pleased with their course, and takes delight to see
How Elne upon the south, in sallying to the sea 255
Confines her: on the north how Wampull on her way,
Her purlews wondrous large, yet limitteth againe,
Both falling from her earth into the Irish maine.
No lesse is Westward proud of Waver, nor doth win
Lesse praise by her cleere spring, which in her course doth twin 260
With Wiz, a neater nymph scarce of the watry kind,
And though shee be but small, so pleasing Wavers mind,
That they entirely mix’d, the Irish seas imbrace,
But earnestly proceed in our intended race.
At Eden now arriv’d, whom we have left too long,
Which being com’n at length, the Cumbrian hils among, 266
As shee for Carlill coasts, the floods from every where,
Prepare each in their course, to entertaine her there,
Fro
m Skidow her tall sire, first Cauda cleerely brings
In Eden all her wealth; so Petterell from her springs,
(Not farre from Skidows foot, whence dainty Cauda creeps) 271
Along to overtake her soveraigne Eden sweeps,
To meet that great concourse, which seriously attend
That dainty Cumbrian Queene; when Gilsland downe doth send
Her riverets to receive Queene Eden in her course,
As Irthing comming in from her most plenteous sourse, 276
Through many a cruell crag, though she be forc’d to crawle,
Yet working forth her way to grace her selfe with all,
First Pultrosse is her page, then Gelt shee gets her guide, 279
Which springeth on her south, on her septentrion side,
Shee crooked Cambeck calls, to wait on her along,
And Eden overtakes amongst the watry throng.
To Carlill being come, cleere Bruscath beareth in,
To greet her with the rest, when Eden as to win 284
Her grace in Carlils sight, the court of all her state,
And Cumberlands chiefe towne, loe thus shee doth dilate.
What giveth more delight, (brave citie) to thy seat,
Then my sweet lovely selfe? a river so compleat,
With all that Nature can a dainty flood endow 289
That all the northerne nymphs me worthily allow,
Of all their Nyades kind the neatest, and so farre
Transcending, that oft times they in their amorous warre,
Have offered by my course, and beauties to decide
The mastery, with her most vaunting in her pride, 294
That mighty Roman fort, which of the Picts we call,
But by them neere those times was stil’d Severus wall,
Of that great Emperour nam’d, which first that worke began,
Betwixt the Irish Sea, and German Ocean,
Doth cut me in his course neere Carlill, and doth end
At Boulnesse, where my selfe I on the ocean spend.
And for my country here, (of which I am the chiefe
Of all her watry kind) know that shee lent reliefe, 302
To those old Britains once, when from the Saxons they,
For succour hither fled, as farre out of their way,
Amongst her mighty wylds, and mountains freed from feare, 305
And from the British race, residing long time here,
Which in their genuine tongue, themselves did Kimbri name,
Of Kimbri-land, the name of Cumberland first came;
And in her praise bee’t spoke, this soyle whose best is mine,
That fountaine bringeth forth, from which the southern Tyne, 310
(So nam’d for that of north, another hath that stile)
This to the easteme sea, that makes forth many a mile,
Her first beginning takes, and Vent, and Alne doth lend,
To wait upon her foorth; but further to transcend
To these great things of note, which many countries call 315
Their wonders, there is not a tract amongst them all,
Can shew the like to mine, at the lesse Sakeld, neere
To Edens bank, the like is scarcely any where,
Stones seventie seven stand, in manner of a ring,
Each full ten foot in height, but yet the strangest thing, 320
Their equal distance is, the circle that compose,
Within which other stones lye flat, which doe inclose
The bones of men long dead, (as there the people say;)
So neere to Loders spring, from thence not farre away, 324
Be others nine foot high, a myle in length that runne,
The victories for which these trophies were begun,
From darke oblivion thou, O Time shouldst have protected;
For mighty were their minds, them thus that first erected;
And neere to this againe, there is a piece of ground,
A little rising bank, which of the table round, 330
Men in remembrance keepe, and Arthurs table name.
But whilst these more and more, with glory her inflame,
Supposing of her selfe in these her wonders great,
All her attending floods, faire Eden doe entreat,
To lead them down to sea, when Leven comes along,
And by her double spring, being mightie them among, 336
There overtaketh Eske, from Scotland that doth hye,
Faire Eden to behold, who meeting by and by,
Downe from these westerne sands into the sea doe fall,
Where I this canto end, as also therewithall 340
My England doe conclude, for which I undertooke,
This strange Herculean toyle, to this my thirtieth booke.
FINIS
IDEA, 1619
CONTENTS
TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS
IDEA, I
IDEA, II
IDEA, III
IDEA, IV
IDEA, V
IDEA, VI
IDEA, VII
IDEA, VIII
IDEA, IX
IDEA, X
IDEA, XI
IDEA, XII
IDEA, XIII
IDEA, XIV
IDEA, XV
IDEA, XVI
IDEA, XVII
IDEA, XVIII
IDEA, XIX
IDEA, XX
IDEA, XXI
IDEA, XXII
IDEA, XXIII
IDEA, XXIV
IDEA, XXV
IDEA, XXVI
IDEA, XXVII
IDEA, XXVIII
IDEA, XXIX
IDEA, XXX
IDEA, XXXI
IDEA, XXXII
IDEA, XXXIII
IDEA, XXXIV
IDEA, XXXV
IDEA, XXXVI
IDEA, XXXVII
IDEA, XXXVIII
IDEA, XXXIX
IDEA, XL
IDEA, XLI
IDEA, XLII
IDEA, XLIII
IDEA, XLIV
IDEA, XLV
IDEA, XLVI
IDEA, XLVII
IDEA, XLVIII
IDEA, XLIX
IDEA, L
IDEA, LI
IDEA, LII
IDEA, LIII
IDEA, LIV
IDEA, LV
IDEA, LVI
IDEA, LVII
IDEA, LVIII
IDEA, LIX
IDEA, LX
IDEA, LXI
IDEA, LXII
IDEA, LXIII
IDEA, LXIV.
IDEA, LXV.
IDEA, LXVI.
IDEA, LXVII.
IDEA, LXVIII.
IDEA, LXIX.
IDEA, LXX.
IDEA, LXXI.
IDEA, LXXII.
IDEA, LXXIII.
IDEA, A CANSONET.
TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS
Into these loves who but for passion looks,
At this first sight here let him lay them by,
And seek elsewhere in turning other books,
Which better may his labour satisfy.
No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast;
Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring;
Nor in “Ah me’s!” my whining sonnets drest,
A libertine fantasticly I sing.
My verse is the true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change;
To choice of all variety inclined,
And in all humours sportively I range.
My muse is rightly of the English strain,
That cannot long one fashion entertain.
IDEA, I
Like an adventurous sea-farer am I,
Who hath some long and dang’rous voyage been,
And called to tell of his discovery,
How far he sailed, what countries he had seen,
Proceeding from the port whence he put forth,
Shows by his compass
how his course he steered,
When east, when west, when south, and when by north,
As how the pole to every place was reared,
What capes he doubled, of what continent,
The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past,
Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent,
And on what rocks in peril to be cast:
Thus in my love, time calls me to relate
My tedious travels and oft-varying fate.
IDEA, II
My heart was slain, and none but you and I;
Who should I think the murder should commit?
Since but yourself there was no creature by
But only I, guiltless of murdering it.
It slew itself; the verdict on the view
Do quit the dead, and me not accessary.
Well, well, I fear it will be proved by you,
The evidence so great a proof doth carry.
But O see, see, we need inquire no further!
Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found,
And in your eye the boy that did the murder,
Your cheeks yet pale since first he gave the wound!
By this I see, however things be past,
Yet heaven will still have murder out at last.
IDEA, III
Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe,
Duly to count the sum of all my cares,
I find my griefs innumerable grow,
The reck’nings rise to millions of despairs.
And thus dividing of my fatal hours,
The payments of my love I read and cross;
Subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours,
My joys’ arrearage leads me to my loss.
And thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye,
Which by extortion gaineth all their looks,
My heart hath paid such grievous usury,
That all their wealth lies in thy beauty’s books.
And all is thine which hath been due to me,
And I a bankrupt, quite undone by thee.
IDEA, IV
Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear,
Since he that blessèd paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother’s lap to sport him there
Let others strive to entertain with words
My soul is of a braver mettle made;
I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
In me’s that faith which time cannot invade.
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 130