THE MEASURE OF THE PERFECT LIFE.

From A Pindaric Ode on the Death of Sir H. Morison, in Underwoods.

T is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day,

Is fairer far, in May,

Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

A HYMN.

From Underwoods.

HEAR me, O God!

A broken heart

Is my best part:
Use still Thy rod,

That I may prove
Therein, Thy love.

If Thou hadst not

Been stern to me,
But left me free,
I had forgot
Myself and Thee.

For, sin's so sweet,

As minds ill bent

Rarely repent,

Until they meet

Their punishment

Who more can crave
Than Thou hast done?

That gav'st a Son
To free a slave:

First made of nought;
With all since bought.

Sin, death, and hell

His glorious name
Quite overcame;
Yet I rebel,

And slight the same.

But, I'll come in,
Before my loss

Me further toss,
As sure to win

Under His cross.

THOMAS CAMPION.

(1567?-1623.)

Campion's works have been edited by Mr. Bullen (London, 1889); selections from Campion are edited by Mr. Ernest Rhys in the Lyric Poets Series (London, 1896); in Arber's Garner, vol. iii.; and in Bullen's Lyrics from Elizabethan Song-Books.

TO LESBIA.

From Campion and Rosseter's Book of Airs, 1601.

Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.

Y sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,

MY

And though the sager sort our deeds reprove

Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive;

But soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.

If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour should not be;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the camp of love:
But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.

When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends;
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.

COME AWAY!

WHAT then is love but mourning?

What desire, but a self-burning?

Till she, that hates, doth love return,
Thus will I mourn, thus will I sing,
"Come away! come away, my darling!"

Beauty is but a blooming,

Youth in his glory entombing;

Time hath a while, which none can stay:

Then come away, while thus I sing,
"Come away! come away, my darling!"

Summer in winter fadeth;

Gloomy night heavenly light shadeth;
Like to the morn are Venus' flowers;
Such are her hours: then will I sing,
"Come away! come away, my darling!"

THE MEASURE OF BEAUTY.

From Thomas Campion's Two Books of Airs (circ. 1613).

GIVE Beauty all her right,

She's not to one form tied;

Each shape yields fair delight,
Where her perfections bide:
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be,
And Ros'mond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,

Through sacred sweetness bred:
Meadows have flowers that pleasure move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound

To one unmoved clime;
She visits every ground

And favours every time.

Let the old loves with mine compare,
My sovereign is as sweet and fair.

THE SHADOW.

From Campion and Rosseter's Book of Airs, 1601.

FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Though thou be black as night,

And she made all of light,

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth;
Though here thou livest disgraced,

And she in heaven is placed,

Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,

As thou still black must be,

Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow her! while yet her glory shineth:
There comes a luckless night,

That will dim all her light;

And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still! since so thy fates ordained;

The sun must have his shade,

Till both at once do fade;

The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.

WHEN THOU MUST HOME.

From Campion and Rosseter's Book of Airs, 1601.

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,

WHEN

And there arrived, a new admired guest

The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,

White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,

To hear the stories of thy finished love

From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.