118. Sirena. Michael Drayton. The Oxford Book of English Verse

Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of English Verse

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Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.

Michael Drayton. 1563–1631

118. Sirena

NEAR to the silver Trent
SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late	5
And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem
Wherewith to crown her,	10
As it belong'd to them
Most to renown her.
On thy bank,
In a rank,
Let thy swans sing her,	15
And with their music
Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus
Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us	20
Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
Puts them down ever.	25
For as my precious one
O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank...	30

Our mournful Philomel,
That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain	35
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
Over and over:
For when my Love too long
Her chamber keepeth,	40
As though it suffer'd wrong,
The Morning weepeth.
On thy bank...

Oft have I seen the Sun,
To do her honour,	45
Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,
With his flames from above	50
Striving to cheer her:
And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnèd,
He, as it had been night,
In clouds hath mournèd.	55
On thy bank...

The verdant meads are seen,
When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Straight to renew them;	60
And every little grass
Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweet	65
In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet
Leaveth some tincture.
On thy bank...

The fishes in the flood,	70
When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land,
From the clear water,	75
Their scales upon the sand
Lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold	80
As in her glasses.
On thy bank...

When she looks out by night,
The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight	85
Fearfully blazing;
As wond'ring at her eyes
With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
Dimming their lightness.	90
The raging tempests are calm
When she speaketh,
Such most delightsome balm
From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank...	95

In all our Brittany
There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep,	100
All hearts surprising;
Which look whilst she doth sleep
Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
Knoweth true measure,	105
And her unmatchèd mind
Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank...

Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
Boast ye your beauties,	110
To Trent your mistress here
Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
Tow'rds the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn	115
And the Peak mountains;
Nor would she none should dream
Where she abideth,
Humble as is the stream
Which by her slideth.	120
On thy bank...

Yet my pour rustic Muse
Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
Though her true lover:	125
Many a long winter's night
Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,	130
Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
Never can number.
On thy bank,
In a rank,	135
Let thy swans sing her,
And with their music
Along let them bring her.

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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