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.
MORE
POEMS BY MICHAEL DRAYTON |
|