England’s Helicon (1600)
This miscellany is almost a distillation of English lyric poetry from the sixteenth century, including selections from Spenser, Sidney, Shakespeare, and a host of lesser poets. It is one of the most tasteful anthologies ever assembled, and since many of its selections are already given in this anthology of Petrarchan translations, I give only one anonymous poem.
P310: Zefiro torna, e ’l bel tempo rimena
Zephirus brings the time that sweetly senteth
with flowers and hearbs, which Winters frost elileth:
Progne now chirpeth, Philomel lamenteth,
Flora the Garlands white and red compileth:
Fields doo rejoyce, the frowning skie relenteth,
Jove to behold his dearest daughter smileth:
The ayre, the water, the earth to joy consenteth,
each creature now to love him reconcileth.
But with me wretch, the stormes of woe persever,
10 and heavie sighs which from my hart she straineth
That tooke the key thereof to heaven for ever,
so that singing of birds, and spring-times flowring:
And Ladies love that mens affection gaineth,
are like a Desert, and cruell bests devouring.
SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING (c. 1567–1640)
Tutor to Prince Henry, Alexander came to England with James I. He was a friend of William Drummond (see next author). He wrote the sequence Aurora (1604) and a 12-book epic, Doomsday (1614). Alexander’s attempt to reproduce Petrarch’s first sestina, from Aurora.
P22: A qualunque animale alberga in terra
While as the day deliuers vs his light,
I wander through the solitarie fields,
And when the euening hath obscur’d the earth,
And hath with silence lull’d the world asleepe:
Then rage I like a mad-man in my bed,
Which being fir’d with sighes, I quench with teares.
But ere Aurora rise to spend her teares,
Still languishing againe to see the light,
As th’ enemie of my rest, I flie my bed,
10 And take me to the most deserted fields:
There is no soule saue I but gets some sleepe,
Though one would seeke through all the peopled earth.
While th’ Aetna of my fires affrights the earth,
And whiles it dreads, I drowne it with my teares:
And it’s suspicious-like, I neither sleepe,
When Phoebus giues nor gathers in his light:
So many piles of grasse not cloath the fields,
As I deuise designes within my bed.
Vnto the time I find a frostie bed,
20 Digged within the bowels of the earth,
Mine eyes salt flouds shall still oreflow the fields:
I looke not for an abstinence from teares,
Till first I be secluded from the light,
And end my torments with an endlesse sleepe.
For now when I am purposed to sleepe,
A thousand thoughts assaile me in my bed,
That oft I do despaire to see the light:
O would to God I were dissolu’d in earth;
Then would the sauage beasts bemone with teares,
30 Their neighbours death through all th’vnpeopled fields.
Whil’st rauish’d whiles I walke alongst the fields,
The lookers on lament, I lose my sleepe:
But of the crocadiles those be the teares,
So to perswade me for to go to sleepe;
As being sure, when once I leaue the light,
To render me the greatest wretch on th’earth.
O happiest I in th’earth, if in the fields,
I might still see the light and neuer sleepe
Drinking salt teares, and making stones my bed.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN (1585–1649)
Laird of Hawthornden, Drummond took his MA from the University of Edinburgh in 1605 and went to France to study law. He abandoned that course after his father’s death in order to remain in Hawthornden, collected a large library and befriended other poets, including Alexander, Drayton and Jonson. His Conversations record Jonson’s first visit to him in 1619. His graceful verse depends much on French and Italian models. The selection prints Sonnets I.6, 9, 15, 50, 51 and II.7 from Parts I and II of Poems (1640).
P178: Amor mi sprona in un tempo et affrena
Faire is my Yocke, though grieuous be my Paines,
Sweet are my Wounds, although they deepely smart,
My Bit is Gold, though shortened be the Raines,
My Bondage braue, though I may not depart,
Although I burne, the Fire which doth impart
Those Flames, so sweet reuiuing Force containes,
That like Arabia’s Bird my wasted Heart
Made quicke by Death, more liuely still remaines.
I joye though oft my waking Eyes spend Teares,
10 I neuer want Delight, euen when I grone,
Best companied when most I am alone,
A Heauen of Hopes I haue midst Hells of Feares:
Thus euery way Contentment strange I finde,
But most in Her rare Beautie, my rare Minde.
P164: Or che ’l ciel e la terra e ’l vento tace
Now while the Night her sable Vaile hath spred,
And silently her restie Coach doth rolle,
Rowsing with Her from Tethis azure Bed,
Those starrie Nymphes which dance about the Pole,
While Cynthia, in purest Cipres cled,
The Latmian Shepheard in a Trance descries,
And whiles lookes pale from hight of all the Skies,
Whiles dies her Beauties in a blushing Red,
Whiles Sleepe (in Triumph) closed hath all Eyes,
10 And Birds, and Beastes a Silence sweet doe keepe,
And Proteus monstrous People in the Deepe,
The Winds and Waues (husht vp) to rest entise,
I wake, I turne, I weepe opprest with Paine,
Toilde in the wayles Labyrinthes of my Braine.
P148: Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro
Nor Arne, nor Mincius, nor stately Tiber,
Sebethus, nor the Flood into whose streames
He fel who burnt the World with borrowed beames,
Goldrolling Tagus, Munda, famous Iber,
Sorgue, Rosne, Loire, Garron, nor proud-banked Seine,
Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble Ladon,
Nor Shee whose Nymphes excell her loued Adon,
Faire Tamesis, nor Ister large, nor Rheine,
Euphrates, Tigris, Indus, Hermus, Gange,
10 Pearlie Hydaspes, Serpent-like Meander,
The Golfe bereft sweet Hero her Leander,
Nile, that farre farre his hidden Head doth range
Haue euer had so rare a cause of praise
As Ora where this Northerne Phoenix stayes.
P112: Sennuccio i’vo’ che sappi in qual manera
Alexis here shee stay’d; among these Pines
Sweet hermitresse did all alone repaire,
Here did shee spred the Treasure of her Haire,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian Mines.
Shee set her by these musket Eglantines,
The happie flowres seeme yet the print to beare,
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugred lines,
To which Windes, Trees, Beasts, Birdes did lend their Eare.
Me here shee first perceau’d, and here a Morne
10 Of bright Carnations did o’respred her Face;
Here did shee sigh, here first my Hopes were borne,
And I first got a Pledge of promis’d Grace:
But ah what serues ’t it to haue beene made happie so?
Sith passed Pleasures double but new woe?
P145: Ponmi ove’l sole occide i fiori e l’erba
Place me where angrie Titan burns the More,
And thirstie Africke fierie Monsters brings,
Or where the new-borne Phoenix spreads her Wings
And troupes of wondring Birds her flight adore.
Place me by Gange or Indes empampred shore,
Where smyling Heauens on Earth cause double Springs,
Place me where Neptune’s Quire of Syrens sings,
Or where made hoarse through Cold, he leaues to roare.
Me place where Fortune doth her Darlings Crowne,
10 A Wonder or a sparke in Enuies Eye,
Or late outragious Fates vpon me frowne,
And Pittie wailing see disastred Mee,
Affections print my minde so deepe doth proue,
I may forget my Selfe; but not my Loue.
P310: Zefiro torna e ’l bel tempo rimena
Sweet Spring thou turnes with all thy goodlie traine,
Thy Head with Flames, thy Mantle bright with Flowres:
The Zephires curie the greene Lockes of the Plaine,
The Clouds for joy in Pearles weepe downe their Showres.
Thou turnes sweet Youth; but ah my pleasant Houres
And happie Dayes with thee come not againe,
The sad Memorialls onelie of my paine
Doe with thee turne, which turne my Sweets in Sowres.
Thou art the Same which still thou was before,
10 Delicious, wanton, amiable, faire;
But shee whose Breath embaulm’d thy wholesome Aire
Is gone; Nor Gold, nor Gemmes her can restore.
Neglected Vertue Seasons goe and come
While thine forgot lie closed in a Tombe.
THOMAS CAREW (1595?–1639?)
Thomas Carew was one of ‘The Tribe of Ben’ Jonson. He studied at Merton College, Oxford, and later at Middle Temple. He performed diplomatic service for Charles I. Text from Poems (1640).
P310: Zefiro torna e ’l bel tempo rimena
The Spring
Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grasse, or castes an ycie creame
Vpon the silver Lake or Chrystall streame:
But the warme sunne thawes the benummed Earth,
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead Swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowzie Cuckow and the Humble-Bee.
Now doe a quire of chirping Minstrels bring
10 In tryumph to the world, the youthfull Spring.
The Vallies, hills, and woods in rich arraye,
Welcome the comming of the long’d for May.
Now all things smile; only my Love doth lowre;
Nor hath the scalding Noon-day-Sunne the power
To melt that marble yce, which still doth hold
Her heart congeald, and makes her pity cold.
The Oxe which lately did for shelter flie
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
20 By the fire side; but in the cooler shade.
Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleepe
Vnder a Sycamoure, and all things keepe
Time with the season, only she doth carry
lune in her eyes, in her heart Ianuary.
P153: Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core
A Prayer to the Wind
Goe thou gentle whispering wind,
Beare this sigh; and if thou find
Where my cruell faire doth rest,
Cast it in her snowie brest;
So, enflamed by my desire,
It may set her heart a-fire.
Those sweet kisses thou shalt gaine,
Will reward thee for thy paine:
Boldly light upon her lip,
10 There suck odours, and thence skip
To her bosome; lastly fall
Downe, and wander over all:
Range about those Ivorie hills,
From whose every part distills
Amber deaw; there spices grow,
There pure streames of Nectar flow;
There perfume thy selfe, and bring
All those sweets upon thy wing:
As thou return’st, change by thy power,
20 Every weed into a flower;
Turn each Thistle to a Vine,
Make the Bramble Eglantine.
For so rich a bootie made,
Doe but this, and I am payd.
Thou canst with thy powerfull blast
Heat apace, and coole as fast:
Thou canst kindle hidden flame,
And ag’en destroy the same;
Then, for pittie, either stir
30 Vp the fire of love in her,
That alike both flames may shine,
Or else quite extinguish mine.
WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605–54)
A Jesuit-trained Catholic, Habington was the author of C astara (1634), which is really the last of the Elizabethan-style sequences. His Castara (Latin, ‘chaste altar’) was Lucy Herbert, whom he married sometime between 1630 and 1633, and, in doing so, he domesticated the sonnet sequence.
P145: Ponmi ove’l sole occide i fiori e l’erba
Quoniam ego in flagella paratus sum. DAVID.
Fix me on some bleake precipice,
Where I ten thousand yeares may stand:
Made now a statue of ice,
Then by the sommer scorcht and tan’d!
Place me alone in some fraile boate
‘Mid th’ horrors of an angry Sea:
Where I while time shall move, may floate
Despairing either land or day!
Or under earth my youth confine
10 To th’ night and silence of a cell:
Where Scorpions may my limbes entwine.
O God! So thou forgive me hell.
Aeternitie! when I thinke thee,
(Which never any end must have,
Nor knew’st beginning) and fore-see
Hell is design’d for sinne a grave.
My frighted flesh trembles to dust,
My blood ebbes fearefully away:
Both guilty that they did to lust
20 And vanity, my youth betray.
My eyes, which from each beautious sight
Drew Spider-like blacke venome in:
Close like the marigold at night
Opprest with dew to bath my sin.
My eares shut up that easie dore
Which did proud fallacies admit:
And vow to heare no follies more;
Deafe to the charmes of sinne and wit.
My hands (which when they toucht some faire,
30 Imagin’d such an excellence,
As th’ Ermines skin ungentle were)
Contract themselves, and loose all sence.
But you bold sinners! still pursue
Your valiant wickednesse, and brave
Th’ Almighty Iustice: hee’le subdue
And make you cowards in the grave.
Then when he as your judge appeares,
In vaine you’le tremble and lament.
And hope to soften him with teares,
40 To no advantage penitent.
Then will you scorne those treasures, which
So fiercely now you doate upon:
Then curse those pleasures did bewitch
You to this sad illusion.
The neighb’ring mountaines which you shall
Wooe to oppresse you with their weight:
Disdainefull will deny to fall;
By a sad death to ease your fate.
In vaine some midnight storme at sea
50 To swallow you, you will desire:
In vaine upon the wheele youle pray
Broken with torments to expire.
Death, at the sight of which you start,
In a mad fury then you’le Court:
Yet hate th’ expressions of your heart,
Which onely shall be sigh’d for sport.<
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No sorrow then shall enter in
With pitty the great judges eares.
This moment’s ours. Once dead, his sin
60 Man cannot expiate with teares.
JOHN MILTON (1608–74)
Vergine bella was not translated by any English poet before the eighteenth century. Milton is the only poet to attempt to reproduce the rhyme scheme (including the medial rhyme of line 13; shown below). That he should have used it for his ‘Upon the Circumcision’ must have satisfied his puritan instinct for taking from Mary to give to the Son. Text from Poems (1645).
P366:Vergine bella, che di sol vestita
Upon the Circumcision
Ye flaming Powers and winged Warriors bright,
a
That erst with Music and triumphant song
b
First heard by happy watchful Shepheards’ ear,
c
So sweetly sung your Joy the Clouds along
b
Through the soft silence of the list’ning night,
a
Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear
c
Your fiery essence can distill no tear,
c
Burn in your sighs, and borrow
d
Seas wept from our deep sorrow:
d
10
He, who with all Heav’n’s heraldry whilere
c
Enter’d the world, now bleeds to give us ease
e
Alas, how soon our sin
f
Sore doth begin
f
His Infancy to seize!
e
O more exceeding love or law more just?
a
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
b
For we by rightful doom remediless
c
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
b
High-thron’d in secret bliss, for us frail dust
a
20
Emptied his glory, ev’n to nakedness;
c
Petrarch in English Page 17