Oberon's Feast

[Ed. Note: Oberon is the King of the Fairies; Shapcot was a close friend of Herrick's. --Nelson]

SHAPCOT! To thee the Fairy State

I with discretion, dedicate.

Because thou prizest things that are

Curious, and un-familiar.

Take first the feast; these dishes gone,

We'll see the Fairy Court anon.

A little mushroon table spread,

After short prayers, they set on bread;

A moon-parched grain of purest wheat,

With some small glit'ring grit*, to eat          [coarsely-gro und grain]

His choice bits with; then in a trice

They make a feast less great than nice.

But all this while his eye is serv'd,

We must not think his ear was sterv'd*:          [starved]

But that there was in place to stir

His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,

The merry cricket, the puling fly,

The piping gnat for minstralcy.

And now, we must imagine first,

The elves present to quench his thirst

A pure seed-pearl of infant dew,

Brought and besweetened in a blue

And pregnant* violet; which done          [fully-opened]

His kitling* eyes begin to run          [sad]

Quite through the table, where he spies

The horns of papery butterflies,

Of which he eats, and tastes a little

Of that we call the "cuckoo's spittle."*          [froth y mass of insect eggs]

A little fuzz-ball-pudding* stands          [puffball fungus]

By, yet not blessed by his hands,

That was too coarse; but then forthwith

He ventures boldly on the pith

Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sag*          [filled]

And well bestrutted* bee's sweet bag;          [stretched]

Gladding his palate with some store

Of emit's* eggs; what would he more?          [ant]

But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,

A bloated earwig, and a fly,

With the red-capp'd worm that's shut

Within the concave of a nut,

Brown as his tooth. a little moth

Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;

With wither'd cherries, mandrake's ears,

Mole's eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears,

The unctuous dewlaps of a snail,

The broke-heart of a nightingale

O'er-come in music; with a wine,

Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,

But gently press'd from the soft side

Of the most sweet and dainty bride*,          [meadowsweet]

Brought in a dainty daisy, which

He fully quaffs up to bewitch

His blood to height; this done, commended

Grace by his priest, the feast is ended.

Robert Herrick

The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home

To the Right Honourable, Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland

[Ed. Note: The hock-cart was the last cartload of harvested grain from the fields; it was often "crowned" with garlands and malkins, and its arrival was the signal to begin the feast called "Harvest Home"; a "malkin" was a pole bound on one end with cloth used as a scarecrow; to "cross the fill-horse" was to ride the horse pulling the cart; "frumenty" was grain boiled in milk sweetened with sugar, cinnamon, and other spices; a "fane" was a fan used to winnow grain; a "fat" was a barrel used for storage. See Thomas Tusser's "The End of Harvest" for another poem on this subject, written 75 years earlier. --Nelson]

COME, sons of summer, by whose toil,

We are the lords of wine and oil;

By whose tough labours, and rough hands,

We rip up first, then reap our lands.

Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,

And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart

Dress'd up with all the country art.

See, here a malkin, there a sheet,

As spotless pure, as it is sweet;

The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,

(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)

The harvest swains and wenches bound

For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.

About the cart, hear, how the rout

Of rural younglings raise the shout;

Pressing before, some coming after,

Those with a shout, and these with laughter.

Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;

Some prank* them up with oaken leaves;   :       [decorate]

Some cross the fill-horse; some with great

Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;

While other rustics, less attent

To prayers than to merriment,

Run after with their breeches rent.

Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,

Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,

Ye shall see first the large and chief

Foundation of your feast, fat beef,

With upper stories, mutton, veal,

And bacon, (which makes full the meal)

With sev'ral dishes standing by,

As here a custard, there a pie,

And here all tempting frumenty.

And for to make the merry cheer,

If smirking wine be wanting here,

There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,

Which freely drink to your lord's health,

Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)

Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;

Then to the maids with wheaten hats;

To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,

Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.

Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,

Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat*           [cattle]

(As you) may have their fill of meat*          [food]

And know, besides, ye must revoke*           [re turn]

The patient ox unto the yoke,

And all go back unto the plough

And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)

And, you must know, your lord's word's true,

Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.

And that this pleasure is like rain,

Not sent ye for to drown your pain,

But for to make it spring again.

Robert Herrick

His Litany to the Holy Spirit

[Ed. Note: The blue candle-flame in stanza 7 indicates the presence of evil spirits. --Nelson]

IN the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,

And when I my sins confess,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,

Sick in heart, and sick in head,

And with doubts discomforted,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,

And the world is drown'd in sleep,

Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

Whe the artless doctor sees

No one hope but of his fees,

And his skill runs on the lees*,          [has been exhausted]

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When his potion and his pill,

Has or none or little skill,

Meet for nothing, but to kill,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the passing-bell doth toll,

And the Furies in a shoal

Come to fright a parting soul,

 &nbps;   Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,

And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,

And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decayed,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When (God knows) I'm toss'd about,

Either with despair or doubt,

Yet before the glass* be out,          [hourglass]

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the Tempter me pursu'th

With the sins of all my youth,

And half damns me with untruth,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries

Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes,

And all terrors me surprise,

    &Nbsp;Sweet Spirit comfort me!

When the Judgment is revealed,

And that open'd which was seal'd,

When to Thee I have appeal'd,

     Sweet Spirit comfort me!

Robert Herrick

A Thanksgiving to God for His House

LORD, Thou hast given me a cell

          Wherein to dwell;

An little house, whose humble roof

          Is weather-proof;

Under the spars* of which I lie          [roofbeams]

          Both soft and dry;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward

          Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

          Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch as is my fate,

          Both void of state*;          [pomp]

And yet the threshold of my door

           Is worn by'th' poor,

Who thither come, and freely get

          Good words, or meat;

Like as my parlour, so my hall

          And kitchen's small;

A little butterie* and therein          [pantry]

          A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

          Unchipp'd, unflay'd*;          [undam aged by vermin]

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

          Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

          And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

          The pulse* is Thine,          [bean]

And all those other bits that be

          There plac'd by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

          Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

          And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

          To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glitt'ring hearth

          With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

          Spic'd to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

          That soils my land;

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,

          Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay

          Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear

          Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine*          [cattle]

          Run cream (for wine.)

All these, and better Thou dost send

          Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

          A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign

          As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

          My Christ, by Thee.

Robert Herrick

To His Sweet Saviour

NIGHT hath no wings, to him that cannot sleep;

And Time seems then, not for to fly, but creep;

Slowly her chariot drives as if that she

Had broke her wheel, or crackt her axletree.

Just so it is with me who, list'ning, pray

The winds to blow the tedious night away,

That I might see the cheerful peeping day.

Sick is my heart; O Saviour! do Thou please

To make my bed soft in my sicknesses;

Lighten my candle, so that I beneath

Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death;

Let me Thy voice betimes i'th' morning hear;

Call, and I'll come; say Thou the when and where;

Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run,

And make no one stop, till my race be done.

Robert Herrick

His Meditation Upon Death

[Ed. Note: The reference to "Nestor" in line 5 is to the king in Greek myth known both for his long life and wisdom. --Nelson]

BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,

Blest with the meditation of my end;

Though they be few in number, I'm content;

If otherwise, I stand indifferent,

Nor makes it matter, Nestor's years to tell,

If man lives long, and if he live not well.

A multitude of days still heaped on

Seldom brings order, but confusion.

Might I make choice, long life should be with-stood*;          [res isted]

Nor would I care how short it were, if good;

Which to effect, let ev'ry passing bell

Possess my thoughts, next comes my doleful knell;

And when the night persuades me to my bed,

I'll think I'm going to be buried;

So shall the blankets which come over me

Present* those turfs, which once must cover me;          [represent]

And with as firm behaviour I will meet

The sheet I sleep in, as my winding-sheet.

When Sleep shall bathe his body in mine eyes,

I will believe, that then my body dies;

And if I chance to wake, and rise thereon,

I'll have in mind my resurrection,

Which must produce* me to that Gen'ral Doom,          [lead]

To which the peasant, so the prince must come,

To hear the Judge give sentence on the Throne,

Without the least hope of affection*.           [partiality or bias]

Tears, at that day, shall make but weak defense,

When Hell and horror fright the conscience.

Let me, though late, yet at the last, begin

To shun the least temptation to a sin;

Though to be tempted be no sin, until

Man to th'alluring object gives his will.

Such let my life assure me, when my breath

Goes thieving from me, I am safe in death;

Which is the height of comfort, when I fall,

I rise triumphant in my funeral.

Robert Herrick