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Title: To The New Year
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
Rich Statue, double-faced,
With Marble Temples graced,
To raise thy God-head higher,
In flames where Altars shining,
Before thy Priests divining,
Do od'rous Fumes expire.
Great JANUS, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian treasure,
Do seriously pursue;
To th' passed year returning,
As though the old adjourning,
Yet bringing in the new.
Thy ancient Vigils yearly,
I haue observed clearly,
Thy Feasts yet smoking be;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Give something to my Goddess,
As hath been used by thee.
Giue her th'Eoan brightness,
Wing'd with that subtill lightness,
That doth trans-pierce the Air;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heav'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of Hair.
Those ceaseless Sounds, above all,
Made by those Orbs that move all,
And ever swelling there,
Wrap'd up in Numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
For Jewels at her Ear.
O Rapture great and holy,
Do thou transport me wholly,
So well her form to vary,
That I aloft may beare her,
Whereas I will ensphere her,
In Regions high and starry.
And in my choise Composures,
The soft and easy Closures,
So amorously shall meet;
That every lively Ceasure
Shall tread a perfect Measure
Set on so equal feet.
That Spray to fame so fertile,
The Lover-crowning Myrtle,
In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,
Within whose shades are dwelling
Those Beauties most excelling,
Inthron'd upon her Brows.
Those Paralels so even,
Drawn on the face of Heaven,
That curious Art supposes,
Direct those Gems, whose clearness
Far off amaze by nearness,
Each Globe such fire encloses.
Her Bosom full of Blisses,
By Nature made for Kisses,
So pure and wond'rous clear,
Whereas a thousand Graces
Behold their lovely Faces,
As they are bathing there.
O, thou self-little blindness,
The kindness of unkindness,
Yet one of those divine;
Thy Brands to me were lever,
Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver,
And thou this Quill of mine.
This Heart so freshly bleeding,
Upon it own self feeding,
Whose wounds still dropping be;
O Love, thyself confounding,
Her coldness so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.
Yet if I be inspired,
I'll leave thee so admired,
To all that shall succeed,
That were they more then many,
'Mongst all, there is not any,
That Time so oft shall read.
Nor Adamant engraved,
That hath been choicely'st saved,
IDEA'S Name out-wears;
So large a Dower as this is,
The greatest often misses,
The Diadem that bears.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: To The New Year
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