English

PART II

I

A VALLEY from the river shore withdrawn
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between,
Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;
And waters to their resting-place serene
Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves):
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)
Have guessed some congregation of the elves,
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.

II

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,

PART I

I

O N Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming!
Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall
And roofless homes a sad remembrance bring
Of what thy gentle people did befall,
Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.
Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore!

II

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies

Ane Exclamatioun to the Redar, Tuycheyng the Wryttyng of Vulgare and Maternall Language

1

Gentyl redar, haif at me non dispyte,
Thynkand that I presumptuously pretend
In vulgair toung so heych mater to writ,
Bot quhair I mys, I pray the till amend.
Tyll unlernit I wald the cause wer kend
Of our most miserabyll travell and torment,
And quhow in erth no place bene parmanent.

2

Quhowbeit that divers devote cunnyng clerkis
In Latyne toung hes wryttin syndrie bukis,

The Prologe

14

Musing and marvelling on the miserie
Frome day to day in erth quhilk dois incres,
And of ilk stait the instabilitie
Proceding of the restles besynes,
Quhare on the most part doith thair mynd addres
Inordinatlie, on houngrye covatyce,
Vaine glore, dissait, and uthir sensuall vyce,

15

Bot tumlyng in my bed I mycht nocht lye.
Quhairfore I fuir furth in ane Maye mornyng,
Conforte to gett of my malancolye,
Sumquhat affore fresche Phebus uperysing,

The Epistill

1

Thou, lytil quair, of mater miserabyll,
Weil auchtest thou coverit to be with sabyl,
Renunceand grene, the purpur, reid, and quhit.
To delicat men thou art nocht delectabyll,
Nor yit tyll amorous folkis amiabyll.
To reid on the thai wyl haif no delite.
Warldlye peple wyll have at the dispyte,
Quhilk fyxit hes thare hart and hole intentis
On sensuall luste, on dignitie, and rentis.

2

We have no kyng, the to present, allace!

1

Suppose I had ingyne angelicall,
With sapience more than Salamonicall,
I not quhat mater put in memorie.
The poetis auld, in style heroycall,
In breve subtell termes rethorycall,
Of everilke mater, tragedie and storie,
So ornatlie, to thare heych laude and glorie,
Haith done indyte; quhose supreme sapience
Transcendith far the dull intellygence

2

Of poetis now, in tyll our vulgare toung.
For quhy? The bell of rethorick bene roung
Be Chawceir, Goweir, and Lidgate laureate.

SECOND PART

That but a small and easy thing now seems,
Which from my house when I came forth at noon
A dream was and beyond the reach of man.
'Tis now a fancy of the will, a word,
Liberty's lightest prize. Yet still as one
Who loiters on the threshold of delight,
Delaying pleasure for the love of pleasure,
I dally — Come, Argeia, and share my triumph!
And set our daughter by thee; though her eyes
Are young, there are no eyes this day so young
As shall forget this day — while one thing more

PROMETHEUS.

From high Olympus and the aetherial courts,
Where mighty Zeus our angry king confirms
The Fates' decrees and bends the wills of the gods,
I come: and on the earth step with glad foot.
This variegated ocean-floor of the air,
The changeful circle of fair land, that lies
Heaven's dial, sisterly mirror of night and day:
The wide o'er-wandered plain, this nether world
My truant haunt is, when from jealous eyes
I steal, for hither 'tis I steal, and here

SCENE II

The same. The torches have burnt out: the glow of the fire is still great enough to illumine the lower part of the hall, but the upper part and the arcade are lost in darkness. The ENVOY is asleep in the chair by the fire, his head on his hand .
ENVOY , awakening and sitting up.

Yes. Who is that? . . .
Disquiet that is not sound wakes me again.
I watch becalmed on a dark tide of sleep
That has no murmurs; yet when its small motion
Withdraws me from myself I hear each time
A voice that has no substance.

SCENE I