The Classic Hundred Poems

The bed that fluttered on the fame, And money was the good Lord's son, That never mayer come hame. O long, long may the lady sit, With her fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spence Come sailing to the strand. And long, long may the maiden sit, With her goud-cames in their hair, Awaiting for their aindear loves, For them they'll see ney mare. Half-hour, half-hour, to Aberdour, Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies good Sir Patrick Spence, With the Scots Lords at his feet. Edward Edward, Anonymous This rugged little drama comes out of the same bloody time and place that produced Macbeth and Sir Patrick Spence. This poem is extremely sophisticated in the way it compresses an entire domestic catastrophe into speeches without introduction or context. The reader is plunged right into the middle of things. A man who has just killed his own father answers questions from his mother. We do not know why, but we do know that such things happen every day. Man slays dad, blames mom. We have to admire the artistry that compresses whole personalities and lifetimes into a few words. Why does your brand so drop with blood, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand so drop with blood? And why so sad go ye, O? O, I have killed my hawk so good, Mother, Mother, O, I have killed my hawk so good, And I have no more but he, O. Your hawk's blood was never so red, Edward, Edward. Your hawk's blood was never so red, my dear son, I tell thee, O. O, I have killed my red-roan steed, Mother, Mother, O, I have killed my red-roan steed That went so fair and free, O. Your steed was old, and ye have more, Edward, Edward. Your steed was old, and ye have more, Some other dole ye dree, O. O, I have killed my father dear, Mother, Mother, O, I have killed my father dear, Alas, and woe is me, O. And what penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? What penance will ye dree for that, my dear son? Now tell me, O. I'll set my foot in yonder boat, Mother, Mother, I'll set my foot in yonder boat, And I'll fare o'er the sea, O. And what will ye do with your towers and your hall, Edward, Edward? And what will ye do with your towers and your hall That were so fair to see, O? I'll let them stand till down they fall, Mother, Mother, I'll let them stand till down they fall, For here never more must I be, O. And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife When ye go o'er the sea, O? The world's room, let them beg through life, Mother, Mother, the world's room, let them beg through life, For them never more will I see, O. And what will ye leave to your own mother, dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your own mother, dear, My dear son? Now tell me, O. The curse of hell from me shall ye bear, Mother, Mother, the curse of hell from me shall ye bear, Such counsels ye gave to me, O. WESTERN WIND, ANONYMOUS An eighteenth-century antiquarian found this splendid verse with a musical setting in a handwritten book of songs dating from the early sixteenth century. Nothing is known about the poet, except that he or she created a memorable speaker who, at a time of separation from a lover, expresses frustration in concrete terms. WESTERN WIND, WHEN WILT THOU BLOW? The small rain down can rain, Christ, if my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! Sir Thomas Wyatt, 1503-1542 Wyatt, the earliest of the named poets in this collection, was born into a noble family in Kent, educated at Cambridge, and employed as a courtier and diplomat by Henry VIII. Thought to have been involved with Anne Boleyn before her marriage to the king, Wyatt was imprisoned briefly after her downfall in 1536, but he soon found his way back into the king's favor. He served as an ambassador, but was later accused of treason. He died a natural death at an early age, although his son, also called Sir Thomas Wyatt, was hanged for treason twelve years after his father's death. Wyatt was witty, learned, and passionate. He was an excellent translator and an effective writer of satirical verse epistles. In technical terms, he was perhaps the most original and inventive of English poets, since he was the first to use terza rima, ottava rima, and the sonnet, all imported from Italy, as well as one of the best practitioners of the rhyme-royal stanza that had been imported from France somewhat earlier. As the pioneer in these most important verse forms, Wyatt has had followers in the thousands, and possibly even in the millions. They flee from me that sometime did me seek, Sir Thomas Wyatt. As far as anybody knows, Wyatt did not give this poem a title. The later editor, Richard Tottle, thought it needed thirteen words. The lover showeth how he is forsaken of such as he sometime enjoyed. After five hundred years, lovers still sing the same old song. They flee from me that sometime did me seek with naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, that now are wild, and do not remember that sometime they put themselves in danger to take bread at my hand, and now they range busily seeking with a continual change. Thank it be fortune it hath been otherwise twenty times better, but once in special, and thin array after a pleasant guise, when her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, and she me caught in her arms long and small, therewithal sweetly did me kiss and softly said, Dear heart, how like you this! It was no dream, I lay broad waking, but all is turned, thorough my gentleness, into a strange fashion of forsaking. And I have leave to go of her goodness, and she also to use newfangleness, but since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved. Sir Walter Raleigh, about 1554 to 1618. Raleigh was chiefly known as a military, political, and diplomatic genius, and also as an inspiring adventurer. He was born in South Devon, and, after a short stay at Oxford, left in 1569 to serve in the Huguenot army. Then he engaged in various adventures and enterprises involving the New World. He was in and out of favor with Queen Elizabeth over the years, being knighted in 1585, but committed to the Tower in 1592. For the next eight or nine years he was involved in an incredible array of exploits. He seems to have been the kind of magnetic and charismatic genius about whom many legends spring up. Most of them are false, or at least exaggerated, but they continue to emphasize how extraordinary Raleigh must have been, even in a golden age that, after four hundred years, remains unsurpassed in the brilliance of its writers and adventurers. When King James I came to the throne in 1603, Raleigh was again charged with crimes against the state, conspiracy among them, and sent to the Tower. He was released briefly in 1616 to go to the Orinoco in search of gold, but after that expedition fizzled he was arrested again, this time to be executed on October 29, 1618. The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd Sometimes one poet will answer another poet's work, as seems to be the case with this poem, which wittily answers Marlowe's poem, The Passionate Shepherd, to his love. It is likely that Marlowe's original poem is a joke that makes fun of corny conventions. A shepherd makes ludicrous claims in his wooing, and promises rewards no shepherd could ever deliver. Here the woman addressed by the shepherd calls his bluff. If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, the rest complains Of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields. A honey-tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. Sir Philip Sidney, 1554-1586 It is hard not to admire Sidney. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, he exemplifies what is meant by Renaissance hero. He was brilliant, versatile, patriotic, courageous, and witty. He was learned in the arts of antiquity, but his thinking was also ahead of his time. He argued for the values of the ancients, but experimented restlessly with ideas and styles. He attended Oxford briefly during his mid-teens, and then traveled as a courtier, soldier, and diplomat. He belonged to a most distinguished family of public servants, and was himself an up-and-coming member of Queen Elizabeth's court, until a religious difference of opinion in 1580 resulted in his temporary banishment from the royal circle. In a brief but concentrated burst of creativity, he wrote many poems, the first important critical text in English, Defense of Poesy, and a celebrated pastoral romance that mixes prose and poetry, The Arcadia. At about the same time, he was engaged to Penelope d'Evereux, who became the model for Stella in the sonnet sequence Astrophil and Stella. She married another in 1581, and in 1583 he married Francis Walsingham. By this time he was back in royal favor, enough to be sent to the continent as governor of Flushing in the Low Countries. He was wounded in battle, and died of gangrene, age 32. With How Sad Steps, O Moon Sir Philip Sidney This is number thirty-one in Sidney's sonnet sequence Astrophil and Stella. Stella means star in Latin. Astrophil combines Greek roots meaning star and lover. Sidney's Astrophil is a frustrated lover, complaining sometimes directly to Stella about her treatment of him, and sometimes indirectly to friends, muses, or, as in this poem, the moon. You can be so burdened by love that the pains have to be downloaded onto everything around. When you are sad, the world seems sad too. When you are hurt by somebody too changeful, then you notice other changeful things, like the moon, which is never the same from one day to the next. With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climbst the Skies How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be, that even in heavenly place, That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love acquainted Eyes can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case. I read it in thy looks, Thy languished grace to me that feel the like Thy state decries. Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above