Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Trent
By Michael Drayton (1563–1631)N
Sirena dwelleth,
She to whom nature lent
All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late,
And the neat Graces,
Have for their greater state
Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem,
Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
Most to renown her.
In a rank
Let thy swans sing her,
And with their music
Along let them bring her.
Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
Are they the better;
Henceforth of all the rest,
Be thou the river,
Which, as the daintiest,
Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one
O’er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.
That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in April
Shall wake the sooner;
And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
Over and over:
For when my love too long
Her chamber keepeth;
As though it suffered wrong,
The morning weepeth.
To do her honor,
Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her,
And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,
With his flames from above,
Striving to cheer her:
And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnéd,
He, as it had been night,
In clouds hath mournéd.
When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Strait to renew them,
And every little grass
Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweet
In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet
Leaveth some tincture.
When she doth angle,
For the hook strive agood
Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land
From the clear water,
Their scales upon the sand
Lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
As in her glasses.
The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
Fearfully blazing;
As wondering at her eyes,
With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
When she speaketh,
Such most delightsome balm
From her lips breaketh.
There ’s not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any,
Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep,
All hearts surprising;
Which look while she doth sleep
Like the sun’s rising:
She alone of her kind
Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchéd mind
Is heaven’s treasure.
Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
Yet pay your duties.
My love was higher born
Towards the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn
And the Peak mountains;
Nor would she none should dream
Where she abideth,
Humble as is the stream
Which by her slideth.
Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
Though her true lover:
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,
Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
Never can number.
In a rank
Let thy swans sing her,
And with their music
Along let them bring her.