Page:Works of Edmund Spenser - 1857.djvu/396

362 Professing thee I lifted am aloft Betwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky; And thou, most dread Octavius, which oft To learned wits giv’st courage worthily, O come, thou sacred childe, come sliding soft, And favour my beginnings graciously: For not these leaves do sing that dreadfull stound, When giants bloud did staine Phlegræan ground.

Now how th’ halfe horsy people, Centaures hight, Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord; Nor how the East with tyranous despight Burnt th’ Attick towres, and people slew with sword; Nor how mount Athos through exceeding might Was digged downe; nor yron bands abord The Pontick sea by their huge navy cast; My volume shall renowne, so long since past.

Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete, When flocking Persians did the Greeks affray: But my soft muse, as for her power more meete, Delights (with Phœbus friendly leave) to play An easie running verse with tender feete. And thou, dread sacred child, to thee alway Let everlasting lightsome glory strive, Through the worlds endles ages to survive.

And let an happie roome remaine for thee Mongst heavenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest; And let long lasting life with ioyous glee, As thy due meede that thou deservest best, Hereafter many yeares remembred be Amongst good men, of whom thou oft art blest; Live thou for ever in all happinesse! But let us turne to our first businesse.

The fiery sun was mounted now on hight Up to the heavenly towers, and shot each where Out of his golden charet glistering light; And fayre Aurora, with her rosie heare, The hatefull darknes now had put to flight; When as the shepheard, seeing day appeare, His little goats gan drive out of their stalls, To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls.

To an high mountaines top he with them went, Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills: They now amongst the woods and thickets ment, Now in the valleies wandring at their wills, Spread themselves farre abroad through each descent; Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills; Some, clambring through the hollow cliffes on hy, Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.

Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop, And brouze the woodbine twigges that freshly bud This with full bit doth catch the utmost top Of some soft willow, or new growen stud; This with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop, And chaw the tender prickles in her cud; The whiles another high doth overlooke Her owne like image in a christall brooke.

O the great happines, which shepheards have, Who so loathes not too much the poore estate, With minde that ill use doth before deprave, Ne measures all things by the costly rate Of riotise, and semblants outward brave! No such sad cares, as wont to macerate And rend the greedie mindes of covetous men, Do ever creepe into the shepheards den.

Ne cares he if the fleece, which him arayes, Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye; Ne glistering of goldes, which underlayes The summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye, Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayes Of precious stones, whence no good commeth by; Ne yet his cup embost with imagery Of Bœtus or of Alcons vanity.

Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee, Which are from Indian seas brought far away But with pure brest from carefull sorrow free, On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft display, In sweete spring time, when flowres varietie With sundrie colours paints the sprinckled lay There, lying all at ease from guile or spight, With pype of fennie reedes doth him delight.

There he, lord of himselfe, with palme bedight, His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine: There his milk-dropping goats be his delight, And fruitefull pales, and the forrest greene, And darkesome caves in pleasaunt vallies pight, Wheras continuall shade is to be seene, And where fresh springing wells, as christall neate, Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate.

O! who can lead then a more happie life Than he, that with cleane minde, and heart sincere, No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife, No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare; Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife, That in the sacred temples he may reare A trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure, Or may abound in riches above measure.

Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe, And not with skill of craftsman polished: He ioyes in groves, and makes himselfe full blythe With sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gathered; Ne frankincens he from Panchæa buyth: Sweete Quiet harbours in his harmeles head, And perfect Pleasure buildes her ioyous bowre, Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts devowre.

This all his care, this all his whole indevour, To this his minde and senses he doth bend, How he may flow in quiets matchles treasour, Content with any food that God doth send; And how his limbs, resolv’d through idle leisour Unto sweete sleepe he may securely lend, In some coole shadow from the scorching heat, The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate.