The Nymph of the Severn

From “Comus” SPIRIT.—There is a gentle nymph not far from hence That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream. Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure; Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father Brute. She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enragèd stepdame Guendolen, Commended her fair innocence to the flood That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. The water-nymphs that in the bottom played Held up their pearlèd wrists, and took her in, Bearing her straight to aged Nereus’ hall, Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, And gave her to his daughters to imbathe In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel, And through the porch and inlet of each sense Dropped in ambrosial oils, till she revived, And underwent a quick immortal change, Made Goddess of the river: still she retains Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve Visits the herds along the twilight meadows, Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs That the shrewd meddling elf delights to make, Which she with precious vialed liquors heals; For which the shepherds at their festivals Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. And, as the old swain said, she can unlock The clasping charm, and thaw the mumming spell, If she be right invoked in warbled song; For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift To aid a virgin, such as was herself, In hard besetting need; this will I try, And add the power of some adjuring verse. SONG     Sabrina fair,         Listen where thou art sitting     Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,         In twisted braids of lilies knitting     The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;         Listen, for dear honor’s sake,         Goddess of the silver lake,               Listen and save!     Listen, and appear to us     In name of great Oceanus;     By th’ earth-shaking Neptune’s mace     And Tethy’s grave majestic pace;     By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look,     And the Carpathian wizard’s hook;     By scaly Triton’s winding shell,     And old sooth-saying Glaucus’ spell;     By Leucothea’s lovely hands,     And her son that rules the strands;     By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet,     And the songs of sirens sweet;     By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,     And fair Ligea’s golden comb,     Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks,     Sleeking her soft alluring locks;     By all the nymphs that nightly dance     Upon thy streams with wily glance—     Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head     From thy coral-paven bed,     And bridle in thy headlong wave,     Till thou our summons answered have.               Listen and save! SABRINA rises, attended by water-nymphs, and sings.       SABRINA.—By the rushy-fringèd bank,     Where grows the willow and the osier dank           My sliding chariot stays,     Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen         Of turkois blue, and emerald green,           That in the channel strays;         Whilst from off the waters fleet         Thus I set my printless feet         O’er the cowslip’s velvet head,           That bends not as I tread;         Gentle swain, at thy request           I am here.       SPIRIT.—Goddess, dear,       We implore thy powerful hand       To undo the charmèd band       Of true virgin here distressed,       Through the force and through the wile       Of unblest enchanter vile.         SABRINA.—Shepherd, ’t is my office best       To help ensnarèd chastity:       Brightest lady, look on me!       Thus I sprinkle on thy breast       Drops that from my fountain pure       I have kept of precious cure,       Thrice upon thy finger’s tip,       Thrice upon thy rubied lip;       Next this marble venomed seat,       Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,       I touch with chaste palms moist and cold:       Now the spell hath lost his hold;       And I must haste ere morning hour       To wait in Amphitritè’s bower. SABRINA descends, and the LADY rises out of her seat.           SPIRIT.—Virgin, daughter of Locrine,         Sprung from old Anchises’ line,           May thy brimmèd waves for this           Their full tribute never miss         From a thousand petty rills,         That tumble down the snowy hills;         Summer drought, or singèd air,         Never scorch thy tresses fair,         Nor wet October’s torrent flood         Thy molten crystal fill with mud;         May thy billows roll ashore         The beryl, and the golden ore;         May thy lofty head be crowned         With many a tower and terrace round,         And here and there thy banks upon         With groves of myrrh and cinnamon.           Come, lady! while heaven lends us grace,         Let us fly this cursèd place,         Lest the sorcerer us entice         With some other new device.         Not a waste or needless sound,         Till we come to holier ground;         I shall be your faithful guide         Through this gloomy covert wide;         And not many furlongs thence         Is your father’s residence,         Where this night are met in state         Many a friend to gratulate         His wished presence, and beside         All the swains that near abide,         With jigs and rural dance resort;         We shall catch them at their sport,         And our sudden coming there         Will double all their mirth and cheer;         Come, let us haste, the stars grow high,         But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.