Sirena

By Michael Drayton

1563-1631

NEAR to the silver Trent
         SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
         All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
         And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
         Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem
         Wherewith to crown her,
As it belong'd to them
         Most to renown her.
         On thy bank,
         In a rank,
         Let thy swans sing her,
         And with their music
         Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus
         Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
         Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
         Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
         Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one
         O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
         Turneth thy gravel.
         On thy bank...

Our mournful Philomel,
         That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
         Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
         From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
         Over and over:
For when my Love too long
         Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffer'd wrong,
         The Morning weepeth.
         On thy bank...

Oft have I seen the Sun,
         To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon
         To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,
         Every hill near her,
With his flames from above
         Striving to cheer her:
And when she from his sight
         Hath herself turned,
He, as it had been night,
         In clouds hath mourned.
         On thy bank...

The verdant meads are seen,
         When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
         Straight to renew them;
And every little grass
         Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
         Upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweet
         In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet
         Leaveth some tincture.
         On thy bank...

The fishes in the flood,
         When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
         Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land,
         From the clear water,
Their scales upon the sand
         Lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
         Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
         As in her glasses.
         On thy bank...

When she looks out by night,
         The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
         Fearfully blazing;
As wond'ring at her eyes
         With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
         Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
         When she speaketh,
Such most delightsome balm
         From her lips breaketh.
         On thy bank...

In all our Brittany
         There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
         Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep,
         All hearts surprising;
Which look whilst she doth sleep
         Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
         Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatched mind
         Is heaven's treasure.
         On thy bank...

Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
         Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
         Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
         Tow'rds the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn
         And the Peak mountains;
Nor would she none should dream
         Where she abideth,
Humble as is the stream
         Which by her slideth.
         On thy bank...

Yet my pour rustic Muse
         Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
         Though her true lover:
Many a long winter's night
         Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
         Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,
         Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
         Never can number.
         On thy bank,
         In a rank,
         Let thy swans sing her,
         And with their music
         Along let them bring her.

DayPoems Poem No. 120
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/120.html">Sirena by Michael Drayton</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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