Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

Poems of Fancy: II. Fairies: Elves: Sprites

The Nymph of the Severn

John Milton (1608–1674)

SPIRIT.—There is a gentle nymph not far from hence

That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream.

Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure;

Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,

That had the sceptre from his father Brute.

She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit

Of her enragèd stepdame Guendolen,

Commended her fair innocence to the flood

That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course.

The water-nymphs that in the bottom played

Held up their pearlèd wrists, and took her in,

Bearing her straight to aged Nereus’ hall,

Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,

And gave her to his daughters to imbathe

In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel,

And through the porch and inlet of each sense

Dropped in ambrosial oils, till she revived,

And underwent a quick immortal change,

Made Goddess of the river: still she retains

Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve

Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,

Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs

That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make,

Which she with precious vialed liquors heals;

For which the shepherds at their festivals

Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream

Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils.

And, as the old swain said, she can unlock

The clasping charm, and thaw the mumming spell,

If she be right invoked in warbled song;

For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift

To aid a virgin, such as was herself,

In hard besetting need; this will I try,

And add the power of some adjuring verse.

Sabrina fair,

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;

Listen, for dear honor’s sake,

Goddess of the silver lake,

Listen and save!

Listen, and appear to us

In name of great Oceanus;

By th’ earth-shaking Neptune’s mace

And Tethy’s grave majestic pace;

By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look,

And the Carpathian wizard’s hook;

By scaly Triton’s winding shell,

And old sooth-saying Glaucus’ spell;

By Leucothea’s lovely hands,

And her son that rules the strands;

By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet,

And the songs of sirens sweet;

By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,

And fair Ligea’s golden comb,

Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks,

Sleeking her soft alluring locks;

By all the nymphs that nightly dance

Upon thy streams with wily glance—

Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head

From thy coral-paven bed,

And bridle in thy headlong wave,

Till thou our summons answered have.

Listen and save!

SABRINA.—By the rushy-fringèd bank,

Where grows the willow and the osier dank

My sliding chariot stays,

Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen

Of turkois blue, and emerald green,

That in the channel strays;

Whilst from off the waters fleet

Thus I set my printless feet

O’er the cowslip’s velvet head,

That bends not as I tread;

Gentle swain, at thy request

I am here.

SPIRIT.—Goddess, dear,

We implore thy powerful hand

To undo the charmèd band

Of true virgin here distressed,

Through the force and through the wile

Of unblest enchanter vile.

SABRINA.—Shepherd, ’t is my office best

To help ensnarèd chastity:

Brightest lady, look on me!

Thus I sprinkle on thy breast

Drops that from my fountain pure

I have kept of precious cure,

Thrice upon thy finger’s tip,

Thrice upon thy rubied lip;

Next this marble venomed seat,

Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,

I touch with chaste palms moist and cold:

Now the spell hath lost his hold;

And I must haste ere morning hour

To wait in Amphitritè’s bower.

SPIRIT.—Virgin, daughter of Locrine,

Sprung from old Anchises’ line,

May thy brimmèd waves for this

Their full tribute never miss

From a thousand petty rills,

That tumble down the snowy hills;

Summer drought, or singèd air,

Never scorch thy tresses fair,

Nor wet October’s torrent flood

Thy molten crystal fill with mud;

May thy billows roll ashore

The beryl, and the golden ore;

May thy lofty head be crowned

With many a tower and terrace round,

And here and there thy banks upon

With groves of myrrh and cinnamon.

Come, lady! while heaven lends us grace,

Let us fly this cursèd place,

Lest the sorcerer us entice

With some other new device.

Not a waste or needless sound,

Till we come to holier ground;

I shall be your faithful guide

Through this gloomy covert wide;

And not many furlongs thence

Is your father’s residence,

Where this night are met in state

Many a friend to gratulate

His wished presence, and beside

All the swains that near abide,

With jigs and rural dance resort;

We shall catch them at their sport,

And our sudden coming there

Will double all their mirth and cheer;

Come, let us haste, the stars grow high,

But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.