Henry Howard: Verses about Death

TH' Assyrian king, in peace, with foul desire
And filthy lusts that stain'd his regal heart ;
In war, that should set princely hearts on fire,
Did yield vanquisht for want of martial art.
The dint of swords from kisses seemed strange ;
And harder than his lady's side, his targe : 1
From glutton feasts to soldier's fare, a change ;
His helmet, far above a garland's charge :
Who scarce the name of manhood did retain,
Drenched in sloth and womanish delight.
Feeble of spirit, impatient of pain,
When he had lost his honour, and his right,
(Proud time of wealth, in storms appalled with dread,)
Murder'd himself, to shew some manful deed.

NORFOLK sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead ;
Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, though hight
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for Lord thou chase ;
(Aye, me ! whilst life did last that league was tender)
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and batter'd Boulogne render.
At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will ;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.
Ah ! Clere ! if love had booted, care, or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he by envy could obtain.

A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stithy where that some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain.

A visage stern and mild, where both did grow,
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice;
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so
To live upright and smile at fortune's choice.

A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit:
A mark, the which (unparfited, for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.

A tongue that served in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.

An eye whose judgment none affect could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile;
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.

A heart where dread was never so impress'd,
To hide the thought that might the truth advance;
In neither fortune loft, nor yet repress'd,
To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.

A valiant corps, where force and beauty met;
Happy, alas, too happy, but for foes!
Lived, and ran the race, that Nature set:
Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose.

But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,
Which left with such as covet Christ to know
Witness of faith that never shall be dead,
Sent for our health, but not received so.
Thus, for our guilt, this jewel have we lost;
The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.

BLUE gulf all around us,
Blue sky overhead -
Muster all on the quarter,
We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor,
Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from
We know, and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,
Reason drifting awreck,
''T is my watch,' he would mutter,
'I must go upon deck!'

Aye, on deck, by the foremast!
But watch and lookout are done;
The Union Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine,
Stay the hurrying shaft;
Let the roll of the ocean
Cradle our giant craft;
Gather around the grating,
Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen
To the holiest page of prayer!
Let every foot be quiet,
Every head be bare -
The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service,
(A little spray on his cheeks)
The grand old words of burial,
And the trust a true heart seeks: -
'We therefore commit his body
To the deep' - and, as he speaks,

Launched from the weather railing,
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly, shotted hammock
Plunges away from the shark,
Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll
High o'er his canvas coffin;
But, silence to doubt and dole: -
There's a quiet harbor somewhere
For the poor aweary soul.

Free the fettered engine,
Speed the tireless shaft,
Loose to'gallant and topsail,
The breeze is far abaft!

Blue sea all around us,
Blue sky bright o'erhead -
Every man to his duty,
We have buried our dead!

Phylida was a faire mayde,
As fresh as any flowre;
Whom Harpalus the herdman prayde
To be his paramour.

Harpalus, and eke Corin,
Were herdmen both yfere;
And Phylida could twist and spinne,
And thereto sing full clere.

But Phylida was all to coye
For Harpalus to winne;
For Corin was her onely joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.

How often would she flowers twine,
How often garlandes make
Of couslips and of colombine?
And al for Corin's sake.

But Corin, he had haukes to lure,
And forced more the field;
Of lovers lawe he toke no cure:
For once he was begilde.

Harpalus prevailed nought,
His labour all was lost:
For he was fardest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

Therefore waxt he both pale and leane,
And drye as clot of clay;
His fleshe it was consumed cleane;
His colour gone away.

His beard it had not long be shave;
His heare hong all unkempt:
A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spitefull love had spent.

His eyes were red, and all 'fore-watcht;'
His face besprent with teares;
It semde unhap had him long 'hatcht,'
In mids of his dispaires.

His clothes were blacke, and also bare;
As one forlorne was he;
Upon his head alwayes he ware
A wreath of wyllow tree.

His beastes he kept upon the hyll,
And he sate in the dale;
And thus with sighes and sorrowes shril,
He gan to tell his tale.

'Oh Harpalus!' (thus would he say)
'Unhappiest under sunne!
The cause of thine unhappy day,
By love was first begunne.

'For thou wentest first by sute to seeke
A tigre to make tame,
That settes not by thy love a leeke,
But makes thy griefe her game.

'As easy it were for to convert
The frost into 'a' flame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,
Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.

'Corin he liveth carelesse;
He leapes among the leaves;
He eats the frutes of thy redresse;
Thou 'reapst,' he takes the sheaves.

'My beastes a whyle your foode refraine,
And harke your herdmans sounde,
Whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine,
Through-girt with many a wounde.

'O happy be ye, beastes wilde,
That here your pasture takes;
I se that ye be not begilde
Of these your faithfull makes.

'The hart he feedeth by the hinde;
The bucke harde by the do;
The turtle dove is not unkinde
To him that loves her so.

'The ewe she hath by her the ramme;
The young cow hath the bull;
The calfe with many a lusty lambe
Do fede their hunger full.

'But wel-away! that nature wrought
The, Phylida, so faire!
For I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty all to deare.

'What reason is that crueltie
With beautie should have part?
Or els that such a great tyranny
Should dwell in womans hart!

'I see therefore to shape my death
She cruelly is prest;
To th' ende that I may want my breath:
My dayes been at the best.

'O Cupide, graunt this may request,
And do not stoppe thine eares:
That she may feele within her brest,
The paines of my dispaires;

'Of Corin, 'who' is carelesse,
That she may crave her fee,
As I have done, in great distresse,
That loved her faithfully.

'But since that I shal die her slave,
Her slave and eke her thrall,
Write you, my frendes, upon my grave
This chaunce that is befall.

''Here lieth unhappy Harpalus
By cruell love now slaine;
Whom Phylida unjustly thus
Hath murdred with disdaine.''

IN winter's just return, when Boreas gan his reign,
And every tree unclothed fast, as nature taught them plain :
In misty morning dark, as sheep are then in hold,
I hied me fast, it sat me on, my sheep for to unfold.
And as it is a thing that lovers have by fits,
Under a palm I heard one cry as he had lost his wits.
Whose voice did ring so shrill in uttering of his plaint,
That I amazed was to hear how love could him attaint.
' Ah ! wretched man,' quoth he ; 'come, death, and rid this woe ;
A just reward, a happy end, if it may chance thee so.
Thy pleasures past have wrought thy woe without redress ;
If thou hadst never felt no joy, thy smart had been the less.'
And rechless* of his life, he gan both sigh and groan :
A rueful thing me thought it was, to hear him make such moan.
'Thou cursed pen,' said he, 'woe-worth the bird thee bare;
The man, the knife, and all that made thee, woe be to their share :
Woe-worth the time and place where I so could indite ;
And woe be it yet once again, the pen that so can write.
Unhappy hand ! it had been happy time for me,
If when to write thou learned first, unjointed hadst thou be.'
Thus cursed he himself, and every other wight,
Save her alone whom love him bound to serve both day and night.
Which when I heard, and saw how he himself fordid ;1
Against the ground with bloody strokes, himself e'en there to rid ;
Had been my heart of flint, it must have melted tho' ;
For in my life I never saw a man so full of woe.
With tears for his redress I rashly to him ran,
And in my arms I caught him fast, and thus I spake him than :
' What woful wight art thou, that in such heavy case
Torments thyself with such despite, here in this desart place ?'
Wherewith as all aghast, fulfill'd with ire and dread,
He cast on me a staring look, with colour pale and dead :
' Nay, what art thou,' quoth he, 'that in this heavy plight
Dost find me here, most woful wretch, that life hath in despite ?'
' I am,' quoth I, 'but poor, and simple in degree ;
A shepherd's charge I have in hand, unworthy though I be.'
With that he gave a sigh, as though the sky should fall,
And loud, alas ! he shrieked oft, and, 'Shepherd,' gan he call,
'Come, hie thee fast at once, and print it in thy heart,
So thou shalt know, and I shall tell thee, guiltless how I smart.'
His back against the tree sore feebled all with faint,
With weary sprite he stretcht him up, and thus he told his plaint :
' Once in my heart,' quoth he, 'it chanced me to love
Such one, in whom hath Nature wrought, her cunning for to prove.
And sure I cannot say, but many years were spent,
With such good will so recompens'd, as both we were content.
Whereto then I me bound, and she likewise also,
The sun should run his course awry, ere we this faith forego.
Who joyed then but I ? who had this worldès bliss ?
Who might compare a life to mine, that never thought on this ?
But dwelling in this truth, amid my greatest joy,
Is me befallen a greater loss than Priam had of Troy.
She is reversed clean, and beareth me in hand,
That my deserts have given cause to break this faithful band :
And for my just excuse availeth no defence.
Now knowest thou all ; I can no more ; but, Shepherd, hie thee hence,
And give him leave to die, that may no longer live :
Whose record, lo ! I claim to have, my death I do forgive.
And eke when I am gone, be bold to speak it plain,
Thou hast seen die the truest man that ever love did pain.'
Wherewith he turned him round, and gasping oft for breath,
Into his arms a tree he raught, and said : 'Welcome my death !
Welcome a thousand fold, now dearer unto me
Than should, without her love to live, an emperor to be.'
Thus in this woful state he yielded up the ghost ;
And little knoweth his lady, what a lover she hath lost.
Whose death when I beheld, no marvel was it, right
For pity though my heart did bleed, to see so piteous sight.
My blood from heat to cold oft changed wonders sore ;
A thousand troubles there I found I never knew before ;
'Tween dread and dolour so my sprites were brought in fear,
That long it was ere I could call to mind what I did there.
But as each thing hath end, so had these pains of mine :
The furies past, and I my wits restor'd by length of time.
Then as I could devise, to seek I thought it best
Where I might find some worthy place for such a corse to rest.
And in my mind it came, from thence not far away,
Where Cressid's love, king Priam's son, the worthy Troilus lay.
By him I made his tomb, in token he was true,
And as to him belonged well, I covered it with blue.
Whose soul by angels' power departed not so soon,
But to the heavens, lo ! it fled, for to receive his doom