The Siren's Song

Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,
        All beaten mariners,
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
        A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which makes the Phoenix' urn and nest.
        Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
        But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
        Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
        For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
        We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

CHORUS.

        Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

The Inner Temple Masque.

William Browne

William Browne (1590–1645) was an English poet from Tavistock, Devon. Best known for his pastoral poetry, Browne's notable works include 'Britannia's Pastorals'. His poetry reflects the influence of Edmund Spenser and his themes often revolve around nature, rural life, and patriotic sentiments. Although his work was not widely known during his time, it has since gained recognition for its lyrical quality and depiction of English countryside traditions.

William Browne

Spring Morning - II

William Browne, Simple Poetry

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William Browne, Simple Poetry

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Caelia -Sonnet - 4

William Browne, Simple Poetry

English

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The Mothers Of The Sirens.

        The débutantes are in force to-night,
            Sweet as their roses, pure as truth;
        Dreams of beauty in clouds of tulle;
            Blushing, fair in their guileless youth.
        Flashing bright glances carelessly
            Carelessly, think you! Wait and see
        How their sweetest smile is kept for him
            Whom "mother" considers a good parti.

        For the matrons watch and guard them well
            Little for youth or love care they;
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In Mythic Seas.

'Neath saffron stars and satin skies, dark-blue,
Between dim sylvan isles, a happy two.
We sailed, and from the siren-haunted shore,
All mystic in its mist, the soft gale bore
The Siren's song, while on the ghostly steeps
Strange foliage grew, deeps folding upon deeps,
That hung and beamed with blossom and with bud,
Thick-powdered, pallid, or like urns of blood
Dripping, and blowing from wide mouths of blooms
On our bare brows cool gales of sweet perfumes.
While from the yellow stars that splashed the skies
O'er our light shallop dropped soft mysteries
Of calm and sleep, until the yellower moon
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Of her wild loveliness, with boisterous pain

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The Song Of The Siren.

Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea,
The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before;
I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff
Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a shore,
And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air,
How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white;
My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine,
And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light;
Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.

Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek,
And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I be...

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Love at Sea

Imitated from Théophile Gautier


We are in loves land to-day;
Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?
Theres many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in loves hand to-day;
Where shall we go?

Our landwind is the breath
Of sorrows kissed to death
And joys that were;
Our ballast is a rose;
Our way lies where God knows
And love knows where.
We are in loves hand to-day

Our seamen are fledged Loves,
Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks fine gold;
Our ropes are dead maids hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold.
We are in loves land to-day

Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange mens feet,
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The Lady's Looking-Glass

Celia and I the other Day
Walk'd o'er the Sand-Hills to the Sea:
The setting Sun adorn'd the Coast,
His Beams entire, his Fierceness lost:
And, on the Surface of the Deep,
The Winds lay only not asleep:
The Nymph did like the Scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the Air.
With secret Joy I heard Her say,
That She would never miss one Day
A Walk so fine, a Sight so gay.

But, oh the Change! the Winds grow high:
Impending Tempests charge the Sky:
The Lightning flies: the Thunder roars:
And big Waves lash the frighten'd Shoars.
Struck with the Horror of the Sight,
She turns her Head, and wings her Flight;
And trembling vows, She'll ne'er again
Approach the Shoar, or view the Main.

Once more at le...

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The Charm

Son of Erebus and Night,
Hie away; and aim thy flight
Where consort none other fowl
Than the bat and sullen owl;
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Poppy and mandragoras
With like simples not a few
Hang for ever drops of dew.
Where flows Lethe without coil
Softly like a stream of oil.
Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:
With this Greek no longer keep.
Thrice I charge thee by my wand;
Thrice with moly from my hand
Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,
And with the jaspis: Then arise,
Sagest Greek....

The Inner Temple Masque.

William Browne