Then, Copland, of this tract a corner, I would know, [doth show What place can there be found in Britain, that A surface more austere, more stern from every way,

That who doth it behold, he cannot choose but say, Th' aspect of these grim hills, these dark and misty dales, [northern gales, From clouds scarce ever clear'd, with the strong'st Tell in their mighty roots, some mineral there doth lie, [ply:' The island's general want, whose plenty might supWherefore as some suppose of copper mines in me, 1 Copper-land was call'd, but some will have't to be From the old Britons brought, for Cop they use to cali

The tops of many hills, which I am stor'd withal. Then Eskdale, mine ally, and Niterdale so nam'd, Of floods from you that flow, as Borowdale most fam'd,

With Wasdale walled in, with hills on every side,
Hows'ever ye extend within your wastes so wide,
For th' surface of a soil, A Copland, Copland,' cry,
Till to your shouts the hills with echoes all reply."
Which Copland scarce had spoke, but quickly
every hill,
[lics fill;
Upon her verge that stands, the neighbouring val-
Helvillon from his height, it through the mountains
threw,
[drew,
From whom as soon again, the sound Dunbalrase
From whose stone trophied head, it on to Wen-
dross went,

Which tow'rds the sea again, resounded it to Dent,
That Brodwater therewith within her banks astound,
In sailing to the sea, told it in Egremound,
Whose buildings, walks, and streets, with echoes
loud and long,

Did mightily commend old Copland for her song.
Whence soon the Muse proceeds, to find out
fresher springs,
[that brings,
Where Darwent her clear fount from Borowdale
Doth quickly cast herself into an ample lake,
And with Thurl's mighty meer, between them two
do make
[derive,
An island, which the name from Darwent doth
Within whose secret breast nice Nature doth con-
trive
[veins,
That mighty copper mine, which not without its
Of gold and silver found, it happily obtains
Of royalty the name, the richest of them all
That Britain bingeth forth, which royal she doth

call.

Of Borowdale her dam, of her own named isle, As of her royal mines, this river proud the while, Keeps on her course to sea, and in her way doth win

Clear Coker, her compeer, which at her coming in, Gives Coker-mouth the name, by standing at her fall. [withal, Into fair Darwent's banks, when Darwent there Runs on her wat'ry race, and for a greater fame, Of Neptune doth obtain a haven of her name. When of the Cambrian hills, proud Skidow that doth show

The high'st, respecting whom, the other be but low, Perceiving with the floods, and forests, how it far'd,

And of the mountain kind, as of all other he
Most like Parnassus self that is suppos'd to be,
Having a double head, as hath that sacred mount,
Which those nine sacred nymphs held in so high
account,

Bethinketh of himself what he might justly say, When to them all he thus his beauties doth display. "The rough Hibernian sea I proudly overlook, Amongst the scatter'd rocks, and there is not a nook,

But from my glorious height into its depth I pry,
Great hills far under me, but as my pages lie;
And when my helm of clouds upon my head I take,
At very sight thereof, immediately I make
Th' inhabitants about tempestuous storms to fear,
And for fair weather look, when as my top is clear;
Great Fourness mighty Fells I on my south
survey:

So likewise on the north, Albania makes me way,
Her countries to behold, when Scurfel from the
sky,
[eye,
That Anadale doth crown, with a most amorous
Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,
Oft threat'ning me with clouds, as I oft threat'n-
ing him :

| So likewise to the east, that row of mountains tall, Which we our English Alps may very aptly call, That Scotland here with us, and England do divide,

ours,

[side, As those, whence we them name upon the other Do Italy, and France, these mountains here of [towers, That look far off like clouds, shap'd with embattel'd Much envy my estate, and somewhat higher be, By lifting up their heads, to stare and gaze at me. Clear Darwent dancing on, I look at from above, As some enamour'd youth, being deeply struck in love,

His mistress doth behold, and every beauty notes; Who as she to her fall, through fells and vallies

floats,

Oft lifts her limber self above her banks to view, How my brave by-clift top, doth still her course

pursue.

O all ye topic gods, that do inhabit here,
To whom the Romans did those ancient altars rear,
Oft found upon those hills, now sunk into the soils,
Which they for trophies left of their victorious
spoils,
[these dales,
Ye Genii of these floods, these mountains, and
That with poor shepherds' pipes and harmless herds-
man's tales
[night,
Have often pleased been, still guard me day and
And hold me Skidow still, the place of your de-
light."
[forth again,
This speech by Skidow spoke, the Muse makes
Tow'rds where the in-born floods, clear Eden
entertain,
[wastes,
To Cumberland com'n in, from the Westmerian
Where as the readiest way to Carlisle, as she casts,
She with two wood-nymphs meets, the first is great
and wild,

And westward forest height; the other but a child,
Compared with her phere, and Inglewood is call'd,
Both in their pleasant scites, most happily install`d.
What Sylvan is there seen, and be she ne'er so
Coy,
[enjoy,

The isle of Darwent.

A hill in Scotland.

And like Diana's self, so truly living chaste? For seldom any tract, doth cross their way less waste,

With many a lusty leap, the shagged satyrs show Them pastime every day, both from the meres below,

And hills on every side, that neatly hem them in; The blushing morn to break but hardly doth begin, But that the ramping goats, swift deer, and harmless sheep, [keep, Which there their owners know, but no man hath to The dales do overspread, by them like motley made;

But westward of the two, by her more widen'd slade, Of more abundance boasts, as of those mighty mines, [shines, Which in her verge she hath: but that whereby she Is her two dainty floods, which from two hills do flow, [her so Which in herself she hath, whose banks do bound Upon the north and south, as that she seems to be Much pleased with their course, and takes delight

to see

How Elne upon the south, in sallying to the sea Confines her on the north how Wampul on her way,

Her purlieus wondrous large, yet limiteth again, Both falling from her earth into the Irish main. No less is Westward proud of Waver, nor doth win Less praise by her clear spring, which in her course doth twin [kind; With Wiz, a neater nymph scarce of the wat`ry And though she be but small, so pleasing Waver's mind,

That they entirely mix'd, the Irish seas embrace, But earnestly proceed in our intended race.

At Eden now arriv'd, whom we have left too long, Which being com'n at length, the Cumbrian hills

among,

[where, As she for Carlisle coasts, the floods from every Prepare each in their course, to entertain ber there, From Skidow her tall sire, first Cauda clearly brings [springs, In Eden all her wealth; so Petterell from her (Not far from Skidow's foot, whence dainty Cauda creeps)

Along to overtake her sovereign Eden sweeps, To meet that great concourse, which seriously attend [doth send That dainty Cumbrian queen; when Gilsland down Her riverets to receive queen Eden in her course, As Irthing coming in from her most plenteous source, [to crawl, Through many a cruel crag, though she be forc'd Yet working forth her way to grace herself withal, First Pultrosse is her page, then Gelt she gets her guide, [side, Which springeth on her south, on her septentrion She crooked Cambec calls, to wait on her along, And Eden overtakes amongst the wat'ry throng. To Carlisle being come, clear Bruscath beareth in, To greet her with the rest, when Eden as to win Her grace in Carlisle's sight, the court of all her state, [dilate. And Cumberland's chief town, lo thus she doth "What giveth more delight, brave city, to thy seat,

Than my sweet lovely self a river so complete, With all that Nature can a dainty flood endow, That all the northern nymphs me worthily allow

Of all their Naiades kind the neatest, and so far Transcending, that oft times they in their amorous

war,

Have offered by my course, and beauties to decide The mastery, with her most vaunting in her pride, That mighty Roman fort', which of the Picts we call,

[wall, But by them near those times was styl'd Severus' Of that great emperor na.'d, which first that work began,

Betwixt the Irish sea, and German ocean, [end
Doth cut me in his course near Carlisle, and doth
At Boulnesse, where myself I on the ocean spend.
And for my country here, (of which I am the chief
Of all her wat'ry kind) know that she lent relief
To those old Britons once, when from the Saxons
they

For succour hither fled, as far out of their way, Amongst her mighty wilds, and mountains freed from fear,

And from the British race, residing long time here, Which in their genuine tongue, themselves did Kimbri name, [came; Of Kimbri-land, the name of Cumberland first And in her praise be 't spoke, this soil whose best is mine, [southern Tyne, That fountain bringeth forth, from which the (So nam'd, for that of North anot'er bath that

style)

[mile, This to the eastern sea, that makes forth many a Her first beginning takes, and Vent, and Alne doth lend,

To wait upon her forth; but farther to transcend To these great things of note, which many countries call [all,

Their wonders, there is not a tract amongst them Can show the like to mine, at the less Salkeld, near To Eden's bank, the like is scarcely any where: Stones seventy-seven stand, in manner of a ring, Each full ten foot in height, but yet the strangest thing,

Their equal distance is, the circle that compose, Within which other stones lie flat, which do enclose [say ;)

The bones of men long dead, (as there the people
So near to Loder's spring, from thence not far away,
Be others nine foot bigh, a mile in length that run,
The victories for which those trophies were begun,
From dark oblivion thou, O Time, should'st have
protected;
[erected:

For mighty were their minds, them thus that first
And near to this again, there is a piece of ground,
A little rising bank, which of the table round,
Men in remembrance keep, and Arthur's table
name."

[flame, But whilst these more and more, with glory her inSupposing of herself in these her wonders great, All her attending floods, fair Eden do entreat, To lead them down to sea, when Leven comes along, [among, And by her double spring, being mighty them There overtaketh Esk, from Scotland that doth hie, Fair Eden to behold, who meeting by and by, Down from these western sands into the sea do fall, Where I this canto end, as also therewithal My England do conclude, for which I undertook This strange Herculean toil, to this my thirtieth book.

7 See to the 29 song.

ELEGIES UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

OF HIS LADY'S NOT COMING TO LONDON.

THAT ten years travell'd Greek return'd from sea
Ne'er joy'd so much to see his Ithaca

As I should you, who are alone to me
More than wide Greece could to that wanderer be.
The winter winds still easterly do keep,
And with keen frosts have chained up the deep;
The Sun's to us a niggard of his rays,
But revelleth with our Antipodes;

And seldom to us when he shows his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.

In those bleak mountains can you live, where snow
Maketh the vales up to the hills to grow;
Whereas men's breaths do instantly congeal,
And atom'd mists turn instantly to hail.
Belike you think, from this more temperate coast,
My sighs may have the power to thaw the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time hath Phoebe from her wane,
With Phoebus' fires fill'd up her horns again?
She through her orb, still on her course doth range,
But you keep your's still, nor for me will change.
The Sun that mounted the stern Lion's back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly dive the brack,
But still you keep your station, which confines
You, nor regard him travelling the signs.
Those ships which when you went, put out to sea,
Both to our Greenland, and Virginia,

Are now return'd, and, custom'd, have their freight,
Yet you arrive not, nor return me aught.

The Thames was not so frozen yet this year,
As is my bosom, with the chilly fear
Of your not coming, which on me doth light,
As on those climes, where half the world is night.
Of every tedious hour you have made two,
All this long winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are months, and when the hour is past,
A year is ended since the clock struck last,
When your remembrance puts me on the rack,
And I should swoon to see an Almanac,
To read what silent weeks away are slid,
Since the dire fates you from my sight have hid.
I hate him who the first deviser was

Of this same foolish thing, the hour-glass,
And of the watch, whose dribbling sands and wheel,
With their slow strokes, make me too much to feel
Your slackness bither, O how I do ban
Him that these dials against walls began,
Whose snaily motio of the moving hand,
(Although it go) yet seem to me to stand;
As though at Adam it had first set out,
And bad been stealing all this while about,
And when it back to the first point should come,
It shall be then just at the general doom.

The seas into themselves retract their flows,
The changing wind from every quarter blows,
Declining winter in the spring doth call,
The stars rise to us, as from us they fall;
Those birds we see, that leave us in the prime,
Again in autumn re-salute our clime.
Sure, either Nature you from kind hath made,
Or you delight else to be retrograde.

But I perceive by your attractive powers,
Like an enchantress you have charm'd the hours

Into short minutes, and have drawn them back,
So that of us at London, you do lack
Almost a year, the spring is scarce begun
There where you live, and autumn almost done.
With us more eastward, surely you devise,
By your strong magic, that the Sun shall rise
Where now it sets, and that in some few years
You'll alter quite the motion of the spheres.

Yes, and you mean, I shall complain my love
To gravell'd walks, or to a stupid grove,
Now your companions; and that you the while
(As you are cruel) will sit by and smile,
To make me write to these, while passers by
Slightly look in your lovely face, where I
See beauteous Heaven, whilst silly blockheads, they
Like laden asses, plod upon their way,
And wonder not, as you should point a clown
Up to the guards, or Ariadne's crown;
Of constellations, and his dulness tell,
He'd think your words were certainly a spell;
Or him some piece from Crete, or Marcus show,
In all his life which till that time ne'er saw
Painting: except in ale-house or old hall
Done by some druzzler, of the prodigal.

Nay do, stay still, whilst time away shall steal Your youth, and beauty, and yourself conceal From me, I pray you, you have now inur'd Me to your absence, and I have endur'd Your want thus long, whilst I have starved been For your short letters, as you held it sin To write to me, that to appease my woe, I read o'er those, you wrote a year ago: Which are to me, as though they had been made, Long time before the first Olympiad.

For thanks and curt'sies sell your presence then To tattling women, and to things like men, And be more foolish than the Indians are For bells, for knives, for glasses, and such ware, That sell their pearl and gold; but here I stay, So would I not have you but come away.

TO MR. GEORGE SANDYS, TREASURER FOR THE ENGLISH
COLONY IN VIRGINIA.

FRIEND, if you think my papers may supply
You with some strange omitted novelty,
Which others' letters yet have left untold,
You take me off, before I can take hold
Of you at all; I put not thus to sea,
For two months voyage to Virginia,
With news which now, a little something here,
But will be nothing ere it can come there.
I fear, as I do stabbing, this word, state,

I dare not speak of the Palatinate,
Although some men make it their hourly theme,
And talk what's done in Austria, and in Beam,
I may not so; what Spinola intends,
[bends;
Nor with his Dutch which way prince Maurice
To other men, although these things be free,
Yet, George, they must be mysteries to me.

I scarce dare praise a virtuous friend that's dead,
Lest for my lines he should be censured;
It was my bap before all other men
To suffer shipwreck by my forward pen:
When king James enter'd; at which joyful time
I taught his title to this isle in rhyme:
And to my part did all the Muses win,
With high-pitch Pæans to applaud him in :

When cowardice had ty'd up every tongue,
And stood all silent, yet for him I sung;
And when before by danger I was dar'd,
I kick'd her from me, nor a jot 1 spar'd.
Yet had not my clear spirit in fortune's scorn,
Me above earth and her afflictions born;
He next my God on whom I built my trust,
Had left me trodden lower than the dust:
But let this pass; in the extremest ill,
Apollo's brood must be courageous still,
Let pyes, and daws sit dumb before their death;
Only the swan sings at the parting breath.

And (worthy George) by industry and use,
Let's see what lines Virginia will produce;
Go on with Ovid, as you have begun,
With the first five books; let your numbers run
Glib as the former, so shall it live long,
And do much honour to the English tongue :
Entice the Muses thither to repair,
Entreat them gently, train them to that air,
For they from hence may thither hap to fly,
T'wards the sad time which but too fast doth hie,
For poesy is follow'd with such spite,

By groveling drones that never raught her height,
That she must hence, she may no longer stay:
The dreary fates prefixed have the day
Of her departure, which is now come on,
And they command her straightways to be gone;
That bestial herd so hotly her pursue,
And to her succour, there be very few,
Nay none at all, her wrongs that will redress,
But she must wander in the wilderness,
Like to the woman, which that holy John
Beheld in Pathmos in his vision.

As th' English now, so did the stiff-neck Jews,
Their noble prophets utterly refuse,
And of those men such poor opinions had,
They counted Esay and Ezekiel mad;
When Jeremy his Lamentations writ,
They thought the wizard quite out of his wit,
Such sots they were, as worthily to lie
Lock'd in the chains of their captivity;
Knowledge hath still her eddy in her flow,
So it hath been, and it will still be so.

That famous Greece where learning flourish'd Hath of her Muses long since left to boast, [most, Th' unletter'd Turk, and rude Barbarian trades, Where Homer sang his lofty Iliads;

And this vast volume of the world hath taught,
Much may to pass in little time be brought.
And if to symptoms we may credit give,
This very time, wherein we two now live,
Shall in the compass, wound the Muses more,
Than all th' old English ignorance before;
Base balladry is so belov'd and sought,
And those brave numbers are put by for naught,
Which rarely read, were able to awake,
Bodies from graves, and to the ground to shake
The wand'ring clouds, and to our men at arms,
'Gainst pikes and muskets were most powerful
That, but I know, ensuing ages shall [charms.
Raise her again, who now is in her fall;
And out of dust reduce our scatter'd rhymes,
Th' rejected jewels of these slothful times,
Who with the Muses would mispend an hour,
But let blind Gothish barbarism devour
These feverous dog-days, blest by no record,
But to be everlastingly abhorr'd.

If you vouchsafe rescription, stuff your quill
With natural bounties, and impart your skill

In the description of the place, that I
May become learned in the soil thereby }
Of noble Wyat's health, and let me hear,
The governor; and how our people there
Increase and labour, what supplies are sent,
Which I confess shall give me much content;
But you may save your labour if you please,
To write to me aught of your savages.
As savage slaves be in Great Britain here,
As any one that you can show me there.
And though for this I'll say I do not thirst,
Yet I should like it well to be the first,'
Whose numbers hence into Virginia flew,
So (noble Sandys) for this time adieu.

DEAR friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad time's catastrophe will be;
The world's first wisemen certainly, mistook
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the book,
And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgment to ensue.

This isle is a meer Bedlam, and therein,
We all lie raving, mad in every sin,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisdom found,
For a mark'd fool, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that pass is brought,
That only he a censor now is thought;
And that base villain, (not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon,
Now like a god with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hallow'd.

This world of ours thus runneth upon wheels,
Set on the head, bolt upright with her heels;
Which makes me think of what the Ethnics told
Th' opinion, the Pythagorists up-hold,
That the immortal soul doth transmigrate;
Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babel were,
And since that time now many a lingering year,
Through fools, and beasts, and lunatics have past,
Are here embodied in this age at last,

And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.

[reason,

For certainly there's scarce one found that now
Knows what t' approve, or what to disallow,
All arsey-versey, nothing is it's own,
But to our proverb, all turn'd upside down;
To do in time, is to do out of season,
And that speeds best, that's done the farth'st from
He's high'st that's low'st, he's surest in that's out,
He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,
He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall; -
Which doth enforce me partly to prefer
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,
Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As 'tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,

To make them sport with, which they use to bring
As men do monkies, puppets, and such tools
Of laughter: so men are but the gods' fools.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,

As wherefore no man knows, God scarcely why;

The virtuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull sot to raise himself upon;
He who ne'er thing yet worthy man durst do,
Never durst look upon his country's foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Than the base beggar (rightly if compar'd ;)
This drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares grow
To any title empire can bestow;

For this believe, that impudence is now
A cardinal virtue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New ways, nay glory to be impudent.

Into the clouds the Devil lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine took to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to work so fast,
That he fell to't, and from his backside flew
A rout of rascal, a rude ribald crew
Of base plebeians, which no sooner light
Upon the Earth, but with a sudden flight
They spread this isle, and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder back by throwing stones,
They became men, even so these beasts became
Owners of titles from an obscure name.

He that by riot, of a mighty rent, Hath his late goodly patrimony spent, And into base and wilful begg'ry run, This man as he some glorious act had done, With some great pension, or rich gift reliev'd, When he that hath by industry achiev'd Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd, In the forlorn hope of the times is plac'd, As though that God had carelessly left all That being hath on this terrestial ball, To Fortune's guiding, nor would have to do With man, nor ought that doth belong him to, Or at the least God having given more Power to the Devil, than he did of yore, Over this world: the fiend as he doth hate The virtuous man; maligning his estate, All noble things, and would have by his will, To be damn'd with him, using all his skill, By his black hellish ministers to vex All worthy men, and strangely to perplex Their constancy, there by them so to fright, That they should yield them wholly to his might. But of these things I vainly do but tell, Where Hell is Heaven, and Heav'n is now turn'd Hell; Where that which lately blasphemy hath been, Now godliness, much less accounted sin; And a long while I greatly marvel'd why Buffoons and bawds should hourly multiply, Till that of late I constru'd it, that they To present thrift had got the perfect way, When I concluded by their odious crimes, It was for us no thriving in these times.

As men oft laugh at little babes, when they
Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the sudden strucken sad,
"As in their fancy some strange forms they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers show,
Angry at our capacities so slow,

That by their count'nance we no sooner learn
To see the wonder which they so discern:
So the celestial powers do sit and smile
At innocent and virtuous men the while;
They stand amazed at the world o’ergone,,
So far beyond imagination,

With slavish baseness, that they silent sit Pointing like children in describing it.

Then, noble friend, the next way to contraul These worldly crosses, is to arm thy soul With constant patience: and with thoughts as bigh As these below, and poor, winged to fly To that exalted stand, whither yet they Are got with pain, that sit out of the way Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none But such as think their black damuation To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when They are advanc'd, those few poor honest men That yet are living, into search do run To find what mischief they have lately done, Which so prefers them; say thou, he doth rise, That maketh virtue his chief exercise. And in this base world come whatever shall, He's worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.

UPON THE THREE SONS OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD,
DROWNED IN HUMBER.

LIGHT Sonnets hence, and to loose lovers fly,
And mournful maidens sing an elegy

On those three Sheffields, over-whelm'd with waves, Whose loss the tears of all the Muses craves; A thing so full of pity as this was, Methinks for nothing should not slightly pass. Treble this loss was, why should it not borrow, Through this isle's treble parts, a treble sorrow: But fate did this, to let the world to know, That sorrows which from common causes grow, Are not worth mourning for, the loss to bear, But of one only son, 's not worth one tear. Some tender-hearted man, as I, may spend Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend. [rue; Some men (perhaps) their wife's late death may Or wives their husbands, but such be but few. Cares that have us'd the hearts of men to touch So oft, and deeply, will not now be such; Who'll care for loss of maintenance, or place, Fame, liberty, or of the prince's grace; Or suits in law, by base corruption cross'd, When he shall find, that this which he hath lost, Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose, Three sons at once so excellent as those: Nay, it is fear'd that this in time may breed Hard hearts in men to their own natural seed; That in respect of this great loss of theirs, Men will scarce mourn the death of their own heirs, Through all this isle their loss so public is, That every man doth take them to be his, And as a plague which had beginning there, So catching is, and reigning every where, That those the farthest off as much do rue them, As those the most familiarly that knew them; Children with this disaster are wax'd sage, And like to men that stricken are in age, Talk what it is three children at one time Thus to have drown'd, and in their very prime; Yea, and do learn to act the same so well, That than old folk they better can it tell.

Invention oft that passion us'd to feign,

In sorrows of themselves but slight, and mean,
To make them seem great; here it shall not need,
For that this subject doth so far exceed

All forc'd expression, that what poesy shall
Happily think to grace itself withal,