16th Century Poems

O

Mary Sidney,
Countess of Pembroke
English
1561 – 1621

 

Oh, what a lantern, what a lamp of light
Is thy pure word to me
To clear my paths and guide my goings right!
I swore and swear again,
I of the statues will observer be,
Thou justly dost ordain.

The heavy weights of grief oppress me sore:
Lord, raise me by the word,
As thou to me didst promise heretofore.
And this unforced praise
I for an off’ring bring, accept, O Lord,
And show to me thy ways.

What if my life lie naked in my hand,
To every chance exposed!
Should I forget what thou dost me command?
No, no, I will not stray
From thy edicts though round about enclosed
With snares the wicked lay.

Thy testimonies as mine heritage,
I have retained still:
And unto them my heart’s delight engage,
My heart which still doth bend,
And only bend to do what thou dost will,
And do it to the end.

from Henry V

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 455th birthday.

William Shakespeare
English
1564 – 1616

 

This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

An End, a Hope, a How, or a When

Luisa Sigea de Velasco
Spanish
1522 – 1560

 

An end, a hope, a how or a when;
they bring behind them what is rightfully mine;
I spend months and years
in vain, and I follow behind that for which I hope;
I am beside myself, and I am looking to see
if what I want exceeds nature;
and thus, I stay awake and count the sad nights,
but I cannot recount what I most feel.

In vain each opportunity passes me by,
but I do not fail to mourn this loss;
I speak with my senses and ask
if there could be a justification for such suffering;
they respond: it is possible, although dead;
what I understand of this, I do not know how to express,
not because of a lack of reason or fortune,
but rather, because of not knowing you in the world.

In this, there is no answer;
not even reason enough to end my vexation,
and since my hope responds so poorly,
it is fair that I respond by remaining silent;
fortune wielded its spear against me,
and the means fled me so as to impede me
from being able to reach the end for which I hope,
and so it compels me to follow that which I do not desire.

Because of this situation I remain behind,
and unhappiness being so close,
I count the sad nights; I can never
reach an accounting of the sufferings I encounter there;
in this, I already fear myself
because of how my thoughts threaten me;
but let life pass by thus, and let it pass quickly,
for there can be no end to my wanting.

It’s True I Went to Market

In honor of Thiruvalluvar, we present this work by one of history’s greatest Hindu mystic poets.

Mirabai
Indian
1498 – 1557

My friend, I went to the market and bought the Dark One.
You claim by night, I claim by day.
Actually I was beating a drum all the time I was buying him.
You say I gave too much; I say too little.
Actually, I put him on a scale before I bought him.
What I paid was my social body, my town body, my family body, and all my inherited jewels.
Mirabai says: The Dark One is my husband now.
Be with me when I lie down; you promised me this in an earlier life.

On Autumn

Baki
Turkish
1526 – 1600

 

There’s no trace of spring left
The tree leaf has fallen on the grass
The orchard trees wear the robe of divestiture
The autumn wind in the grass has the plane tree’s permission.
Golden is the flow at their feet from every side
The orchard trees hope for the river’s favor.
Don’t wait on the grass’ theatrical stage. Let it sway with the light breeze
The sapling is free of leaf and fruit.
Baki, the leaf is distraught in the grass
It resembles a complaint against the wind.