English

BOOK II

Incipit liber secundus.

Proem

Now herkeneth every maner man
That Englissh understonde kan
And listeth of my drem to lere,
For now at erste shul ye here
So sely an avisyon,
That Isaye, ne Scipion,
Ne kyng Nabugodonosor,
Pharoo, Turnus, ne Elcanor,
Ne mette such a drem as this.
Now faire blisfull, O Cipris,
So be my favour at this tyme!
And ye, me to endite and ryme
Helpeth, that on Parnaso duelle,
Be Elicon, the clere welle.

BOOK I

Proem

God turne us every drem to goode!
For hyt is wonder, be the roode,
To my wyt, what causeth swevenes
Eyther on morwes or on evenes,
And why th'effect folweth of somme,
And of somme hit shal never come;
Why that is an avision
And why this a revelacion,
Why this a drem, why that a sweven,
And noght to every man lyche even;
Why this a fantome, why these oracles,
I not; but whoso of these miracles
The causes knoweth bet then I,

1

I dreamed that, walking forth one summer's day
I chanced to meet old Time upon my way,
And, full of spleen,
Taxed him with mischief he had done
To me and thousands more beneath the sun
Plain to be seen.

2

" Blush, blush for shame", said I, " to view this face
Despoiled by thee! — Canst thou one line retrace
That erst was there?
I vow, ev'n I myself can scarce recall
It's heav'nly charm! — But I'm assured by all

The Lilies

1

I dreamed that, from a low-walled mountain road,
I looked adown a long and dangerous steep,
Where 'mid rough stones and grass the waters flowed
Of a slow stream — so slow — it seemed to sleep.

2

Beside the rill a knot of flow'rs was growing
Like water-lilies, graceful, broad, and white;
Methought I clomb the wall, and fast was going
To pluck the lilies, fair and fresh and bright.

3

Downward, in spite of fear, my way I wound

Richard II, surnamed of Bordeaux. 1377

One thousand three hundred and twenty seven
Came Richard the Second to sov'reign power;
By Hereford he from power was driven,
Was forced to submit at Milford Haven,
And perished a prisoner in the Tower.
Wicliffe now began to preach
His tenets met with condemnation:
Yet many a wholesome truth they teach,
And led the way to the Reformation.

1

How sweet is sleep, when gain'd by length of toil!
No dreams disturb the slumbers of the dead —
To snatch existence from this scanty soil,
Were these the hopes deceitful fancy bred;
And were her painted pageants nothing more
Than this life's phantoms by delusion led?

2

The winds blow high: one other world remains;
Once more without a guide I find the way;
In the dark tomb to slumber with my chains —

Are these the honours they reserve for me,
Chains for the man that gave new worlds to Spain!
Rest here, my swelling heart! — O kings, O queens,
Patrons of monsters, and their progeny,
Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely!
Why was I seated by my prince's side,
Honour'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain?
Was it that I might fall most suddenly
From honour's summit to the sink of scandal!
'Tis done, 'tis done! — what madness is ambition!
What is there in that little breath of men,

Ferdinand

Let him be honour'd like a God, who brings
Tidings of islands at the ocean's end!
In royal robes let him be straight attir'd,
And seated next ourselves, the noblest peer.

Isabella

The merit of this gallant deed is mine:
Had not my jewels furnish'd out the fleet
Still had this world been latent in the main. —
Since on this project every man look'd cold,
A woman, as his patroness, shall shine;
And through the world the story shall be told,
A woman gave new continents to Spain.

The storm hangs low; the angry lightning glares
And menaces destruction to our masts;
The Corposant is busy on the decks,
The soul, perhaps, of some lost admiral
Taking his walks about most leisurely,
Foreboding we shall be with him to-night:
See, now he mounts the shrouds — as he ascends
The gale grows bolder! — all is violence!
Seas, mounting from the bottom of their depths,
Hang o'er our heads with all their horrid curls
Threatening perdition to our feeble barques,
Which three hours longer cannot bear their fury,

Columbus, solus

Hail, beauteous land! the first that greets mine eye
Since, bold, we left the cloud capp'd Teneriffe,
The world's last limit long suppos'd by men. —
Tir'd with dull prospects of the watry waste
And midnight dangers that around us grew,
Faint hearts and feeble hands and traitors vile,
Thee, Holy Saviour, on this foreign land
We still adore, and name this coast from thee!
In these green groves who would not wish to stay,
Where guardian nature holds her quiet reign,
Where beardless men speak other languages,