A Sweet Pastoral

Good Muse, rock me asleep
    With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
    Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile,
    Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
    My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,
    That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
    And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees
    That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
    And not a leaf is seen.

The blackbird and the thrush,
    That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest, are now at hush,
    And not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, the bird
    That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
    Recording of a note.

The flowers have had a frost,
    Each herb hath lost her savour;
And Phyllida the fair hath lost
    The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights
    So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
    It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse,
    Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
    To set my heart at rest;

And in a dream bewray
    What fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
    Or when my sorrow end.

Nicholas Breton

Nicholas Breton was an English poet and novelist. He became notable in his time for his wide range of works, from pastoral poetry to satire. Over the years, Breton developed a distinctive style marked by its versatility and lyrical beauty. Some of his more famous works include 'The Pilgrimage to Paradise' and 'A Floorish Upon Fancie.' His contribution to the literary landscape of his era remains impactful.

Nicholas Breton

Phyllida And Corydon

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

A Report Song in a Dream

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

A Sweet Lullaby

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

English

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The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
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The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
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To George Felton Mathew

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
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On a hill there grows a flower,
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The May Night.

MUSE.
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre;
The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar.
To-night the Spring is born - the breeze takes fire.
Expectant of the dawn behold the thrush,
Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush;
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre.


POET.
How black it looks within the vale!
I thought a muffled form did sail
Above the tree-tops, through the air.
It seemed from yonder field to pass,
Its foot just grazed the tender grass;
A vision strange and fair it was.
It melts and is no longer there.


MUSE.
My poet, take thy lyre; upon the lawn
Night rocks the zephyr on her veiled, soft breast.
The rose, still virgin, holds herself withdrawn
From the winged, irised wasp with love possessed.

Emma Lazarus

To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811

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Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free
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Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
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