To hit7 the Sense of human sight;
And therfore to our weaker view,
Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnons8 sister might beseem,
Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen9 that strove
To set her beauties praise above
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright-hair’d Vesta10 long of yore,
To solitary Saturn11 bore;
His daughter she (in Saturns raign,
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida’s12 inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestick train,
And sable stole of Cipres Lawn13,
Over thy decent14 shoulders drawn.
Com, but keep thy wonted state15,
With eev’n step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing16 with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to Marble, till
With a sad Leaden downward cast,17
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Ay round about Joves Altar sing.
And adde to these retired Leasure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hist along18,
’Less Philomel19 will daign a Song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia20 checks her Dragon yoke21
Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;
Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee Chauntress22 oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Heav’ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head she bow’d,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat23 of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu24 sound,
Over som wide-water’d shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the Ayr25 will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans26 drousie charm,
To bless the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in som high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear27,
With thrice great Hermes28, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold29
What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those Dæmons30 that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent31
With Planet, or with Element.
Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter’d Pall32 com sweeping by,
Presenting Thebs or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.33
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskind stage34.
But, O sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus35 from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him36 that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought els, great Bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forests, and inchantments drear37,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited38 Morn appeer,
Not trickt and frounc’t39 as she was wont,
With the Attick Boy40 to hunt,
But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or usher’d with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the russling Leaves,
With minute41 drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddes42 bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan43 loves
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs44 to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.
There in close covert by som Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day’s garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth sing,
And the Waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;
And let som strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
Of lively portrature display’d,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, sweet musick breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by som spirit to mortals good,
Or th’unseen Genius45 of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious Cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed46 Roof,
With antick Pillars massy proof,47
And storied Windows richly dight48,
Casting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic’d Quire below,
In Service high49, and Anthems cleer,
As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell50,
Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew,
And every Herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
HUBERT PARRY
At a Solemn Musick
[Blest Pair of Sirens] (1887)
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais’d phantasie1 present,
That undisturbed Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily2,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion’d sin
Jarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d
In perfect Diapason3, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song,
And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort4 us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
GERALD FINZI: Two Sonnets by John Milton, Op. 12, for tenor or soprano and small orchestra (1928/1936)
Finzi, like Hardy, was haunted by the idea of transience. The horrific notion that time was too short for him to complete his life’s work was aggravated by the outbreak of the Second World War, as we learn from Joy Finzi’s remarks in her journal, dated 16 March 1941:
This next call up will include men of Gerald’s age – to him it is now only a few weeks until ‘the billows go over my head’. He said early this morning, Milton on his blindness best expressed what ceasing his work meant to him: [she then quotes the opening four lines of Sonnet XVI].
When Arthur Hutchings reviewed Two Milton Sonnets in the Musical Times, Finzi wrote a letter to Howard Ferguson: ‘what a slating the two Milton Sonnets get! I don’t mind the adverse criticism at all – it’s quite impersonal & without animosity – but I do hate the bilge & bunkum about composers trying to “add” to a poem: that a fine poem is complete in itself, & to set it is only to gild the lily, & so on. It’s a sort of cliché which goes on being repeated (rather like the phrase “but art is above national boundaries”.)
Sonnet XVI
[On his blindness]
When I consider how my light is spent,
E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day labour, light deny’d,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
Sonnet VII
[How soon hath Time]
How soon hath Time the sutle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer!
My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
But my late spring no bud nor blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv’d so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure eev’n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Masters eye.
BENJAMIN BRITTEN: from Spring Symphony, Op. 44, for soprano, alto and tenor solos, chorus, boys’ choir and orchestra (1949)
Song. On May morning
[The morning star]
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.
RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: from Hodie, Christmas Cantata for soprano, tenor, baritone, SATB, boys’ chorus, orchestra (1953–4)
The poems in Hodie constitute a Christmas anthology, in which Vaughan Williams juxtaposes words from the Scriptures with poems by Drummond, Hardy, Herbert, Milton and Ursula Vaughan Williams.
The Hymn
(Song from On the Morning of CHRISTS Nativity)
It was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav’n-born-childe,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in awe to him
Had doff’d her gawdy trim
With her great Master so to sympathize. […]
And waving wide her mirtle wand,
She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.
No War, or Battails sound
Was heard the World around:
The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
The hooked1 Chariot stood
Unstain’d with hostile blood,
The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng,
And Kings sate still with awfull2 eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peacefull was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His raign of peace upon the earth began:
The Windes with wonder whist3,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While Birds of Calm4 sit brooding on the charmed wave. […]
Such Musick (as ’tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung,
While the Creator Great
His constellations set,
And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltring5 waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out ye Crystall sphears,
Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blow,
And with your ninefold6 harmony
Make up full consort to th’Angelike symphony. […]
Yea Truth, and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Orb’d in a Rain-bow; and like glories wearing
Mercy will sit between,
Thron’d in Celestiall sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing,
And Heav’n as at som festivall,
Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. […]
SIR JOHN SUCKLING
(1609–41)
Sir John Suckling was of middle stature and slight strength; brisque round eie, reddish fac’t, and red nosed (ill liver); his head not very big; his hayre a kind
of sand colour; his beard turn’d up naturally, so that he had a brisk and gracefull looke.
JOHN AUBREY: Brief Lives (c. 1693)
Having inherited a huge fortune from his father, Suckling left Trinity College, Cambridge, travelled abroad with Sir Henry Vane’s embassy to Gustavus Adolphus in Germany, and was knighted on his return in 1630. According to Aubrey, quoting Sir William Davenant, ‘He returned to England an extraordinary accomplished Gent., grew famous at Court for his readie sparkling witt […] He was incomparably readie at repartying, and his Witt most sparkling when most sett-upon and provoked.’ Aubrey also tells us that Suckling invented the game of cribbage: ‘He sent his Cards to all Gameing places in the countrey, which were marked with private markes of his; he gott twenty thousand pounds by this way.’ A leader of the Royalist party, he raised a troop of 100 mounted men, clothed them in resplendent scarlet coats and took part in Charles I’s Scottish Expedition, but when he failed to rescue the Earl of Strafford from the Tower of London, he fled in 1641 to France, where, Aubrey tells us, he committed suicide. His poems, plays, letters and tracts were published in Fragmenta Aurea in 1646; this was followed in 1659 by The Last Remains, a collection ‘of all his poems and letters, which have been so long expected, and never till now published’. One of the Cavalier Poets who, like Carew, Lovelace and Herrick, supported Charles I in the Civil War, he was influenced by Jonson and renowned for his wit. Today he is best known for the lyrics that punctuate his plays, such as Aglaura, from which ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’ is taken. Printed in 1638 at his own expense, it was lavishly staged, and Suckling insisted that his actors wore lace and embroideries of ‘pure gold and silver’.
WILLIAM LAWES
Song
[Why so pale and wan?]1 (1637)
I
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevaile?
Prithee why so pale?
II
Why so dull and mute, young Sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing doo’t?
Prithee, why so mute?
III
Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of her selfe shee will not Love,
The Penguin Book of English Song Page 15