SIRENA

by: Michael Drayton (1563-1631)

      EAR to the silver Trent
      SIRENA dwelleth;
      She to whom Nature lent
      All that excelleth;
      By which the Muses late
      And the neat Graces
      Have for their greater state
      Taken their places;
      Twisting an anadem
      Wherewith to crown her,
      As it belong'd to them
      Most to renown her.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      Tagus and Pactolus
      Are to thee debtor,
      Nor for their gold to us
      Are they the better:
      Henceforth of all the rest
      Be thou the River
      Which, as the daintiest,
      Puts them down ever.
      For as my precious one
      O'er thee doth travel,
      She to pearl paragon
      Turneth the gravel.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      Our mournful Philomel,
      That rarest tuner,
      Henceforth in Aperil
      Shall wake the sooner,
      And to her shall complain
      From the thick cover,
      Redoubling every strain
      Over and over:
      For when my Love too long
      Her chamber keepeth,
      As though it suffer'd wrong,
      The Morning weepeth.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      Oft have I seen the Sun,
      To do her honour,
      Fix himself at noon
      To look upon her;
      And hath gilt every grove,
      Every hill near her,
      With his flames from above
      Striving to cheer her:
      And when she from his sight
      Hath herself turnèd,
      He, as it had been night,
      In clouds hath mournèd.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      The verdant meads are seen,
      When she doth view them,
      In fresh and gallant green
      Straight to renew them;
      And every little grass
      Broad itself spreadeth,
      Proud that this bonny lass
      Upon it treadeth:
      Nor flower is so sweet
      In this large cincture,
      But it upon her feet
      Leaveth some tincture.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      The fishes in the flood,
      When she doth angle,
      For the hook strive a-good
      Them to entangle;
      And leaping on the land,
      From the clear water,
      Their scales upon the sand
      Lavishly scatter;
      Therewith to pave the mould
      Whereon she passes,
      So herself to behold
      As in her glasses.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      When she looks out by night,
      The stars stand gazing,
      Like comets to our sight
      Fearfully blazing;
      As wond'ring at her eyes
      With their much brightness,
      Which so amaze the skies,
      Dimming their lightness.
      The raging tempests are calm
      When she speaketh,
      Such most delightsome balm
      From her lips breaketh.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      In all our Brittany
      There's not a fairer,
      Nor can you fit any
      Should you compare her.
      Angels her eyelids keep,
      All hearts surprising;
      Which look whilst she doth sleep
      Like the sun's rising:
      She alone of her kind
      Knoweth true measure,
      And her unmatchèd mind
      Is heaven's treasure.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
      Boast ye your beauties,
      To Trent your mistress here
      Yet pay your duties:
      My Love was higher born
      Tow'rds the full fountains,
      Yet she doth moorland scorn
      And the Peak mountains;
      Nor would she none should dream
      Where she abideth,
      Humble as is the stream
      Which by her slideth.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.
       
      Yet my poor rustic Muse
      Nothing can move her,
      Nor the means can I use,
      Though her true lover:
      Many a long winter's night
      Have I waked for her,
      Yet this my piteous plight
      Nothing can stir her.
      All thy sands, silver Trent,
      Down to the Humber,
      The sighs that I have spent
      Never can number.
      On thy bank,
      In a rank,
      Let thy swans sing her,
      And with their music
      Along let them bring her.

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