a fair vestal throned by the west
On this date in 1533, the future Queen Elizabeth I was born to Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. By way of introduction, I trust I need not say more than that. ;)
Instead, we'll get to the poetry! I waffled for a bit over what I should post, but as usual, I'll go for Shakespeare.
This royal infant--heaven still move about her!--
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be--
But few now living can behold that goodness--
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Saba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
She shall be loved and fear'd: her own shall bless her;
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:
In her days every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
God shall be truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,
Who from the sacred ashes of her honour
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
And so stand fix'd: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him: our children's children
Shall see this, and bless heaven.
Professionally (and as a Nice Catholic Girl) I know to take stuff like this with a grain of salt (particularly when James I comes into the picture!): but as poetry I do find this greatly moving. :)
More links, because, well, this is my day job...
A brief biography and some links to more in-depth coverage, courtesy of the BBC.
More links -- but in particular I call your attention to the portraits, which are just really cool.
Here you can read some of Elizabeth's own writings, which I highly recommend. In particular, have a look at the Tilbury speech, the 1554 letter to Queen Mary, "On Monsieur's Departure," and the response to Parliament on her marriage. But it's all good.
For a less flattering but strangely poignant look at Queen Elizabeth, see French ambassador Andre Hurault's account of an audience with her in 1597.
And of course this wouldn't be complete without a link to that compendious and contentious work of praise and criticism, Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene.
Since I have become the sort of person who posts Spenser quotes to livejournal of her own volition, here's the proem to Book III of The Faerie Queene, in its entirety, another bit of wonderful Elizabethan panegyric.
It falls me here to write of Chastity,
The fayrest vertue, far aboue the rest;
For which what neeedes me fetch from Faery
Forreine ensamples, it to haue exprest?
Sith it is shrined in my Soueraines brest,
And formd so liuely in each perfect part,
That to all Ladies, which haue it profest,
Neede but behold the pourtraict of her hart,
If pourtrayed it might bee by any liuing art.
But liuing art may not least part expresse,
Nor life-resembling pencill can it paynt,
All were it Zeuxis or Praxiteles:
His dædale hand would faile, and greatly faynt,
And her perfections with his error taynt:
Ne Poets witt, that passeth Painter farre
In picturing the parts of beauty daynt,
So hard a workemanship aduenture darre,
For feare through want of words her excellence to marre.
How then shall I, Apprentice of the skill,
That whilome in diuinest wits did rayne,
Presume so high to stretch mine humble quill?
Yet now my luckelesse lott doth me constrayne
Hereto perforce. But O dredd Souerayne
Thus far forth pardon, sith that choicest witt
Cannot your glorious pourtraict figure playne,
That I in colourd showes may shadow itt,
And antique praises vnto present persons fitt.
But if in liuing colours, and right hew,
Thy selfe thou couet to see pictured,
Who can it doe more liuely, or more trew,
Then that sweete verse, with Nectar sprinckeled,
In which a gracious seruaunt pictured
His Cynthia, his heauens fayrest light?
That with his melting sweetnes rauished,
And with the wonder of her beames bright,
My sences lulled are in slomber of delight.
But let that same delitious Poet lend
A little leaue vnto a rusticke Muse
To sing his mistresse prayse, and let him mend,
If ought amis her liking may abuse:
Ne let his fayrest Cynthia refuse,
In mirrours more than one her selfe to see,
But either Gloriana let her chuse,
Or in Belphœbe fashioned to bee:
In th'one her rule, in th'other her rare chastitee.
Instead, we'll get to the poetry! I waffled for a bit over what I should post, but as usual, I'll go for Shakespeare.
This royal infant--heaven still move about her!--
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be--
But few now living can behold that goodness--
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Saba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
She shall be loved and fear'd: her own shall bless her;
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:
In her days every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
God shall be truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,
Who from the sacred ashes of her honour
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
And so stand fix'd: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him: our children's children
Shall see this, and bless heaven.
Professionally (and as a Nice Catholic Girl) I know to take stuff like this with a grain of salt (particularly when James I comes into the picture!): but as poetry I do find this greatly moving. :)
More links, because, well, this is my day job...
A brief biography and some links to more in-depth coverage, courtesy of the BBC.
More links -- but in particular I call your attention to the portraits, which are just really cool.
Here you can read some of Elizabeth's own writings, which I highly recommend. In particular, have a look at the Tilbury speech, the 1554 letter to Queen Mary, "On Monsieur's Departure," and the response to Parliament on her marriage. But it's all good.
For a less flattering but strangely poignant look at Queen Elizabeth, see French ambassador Andre Hurault's account of an audience with her in 1597.
And of course this wouldn't be complete without a link to that compendious and contentious work of praise and criticism, Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene.
Since I have become the sort of person who posts Spenser quotes to livejournal of her own volition, here's the proem to Book III of The Faerie Queene, in its entirety, another bit of wonderful Elizabethan panegyric.
It falls me here to write of Chastity,
The fayrest vertue, far aboue the rest;
For which what neeedes me fetch from Faery
Forreine ensamples, it to haue exprest?
Sith it is shrined in my Soueraines brest,
And formd so liuely in each perfect part,
That to all Ladies, which haue it profest,
Neede but behold the pourtraict of her hart,
If pourtrayed it might bee by any liuing art.
But liuing art may not least part expresse,
Nor life-resembling pencill can it paynt,
All were it Zeuxis or Praxiteles:
His dædale hand would faile, and greatly faynt,
And her perfections with his error taynt:
Ne Poets witt, that passeth Painter farre
In picturing the parts of beauty daynt,
So hard a workemanship aduenture darre,
For feare through want of words her excellence to marre.
How then shall I, Apprentice of the skill,
That whilome in diuinest wits did rayne,
Presume so high to stretch mine humble quill?
Yet now my luckelesse lott doth me constrayne
Hereto perforce. But O dredd Souerayne
Thus far forth pardon, sith that choicest witt
Cannot your glorious pourtraict figure playne,
That I in colourd showes may shadow itt,
And antique praises vnto present persons fitt.
But if in liuing colours, and right hew,
Thy selfe thou couet to see pictured,
Who can it doe more liuely, or more trew,
Then that sweete verse, with Nectar sprinckeled,
In which a gracious seruaunt pictured
His Cynthia, his heauens fayrest light?
That with his melting sweetnes rauished,
And with the wonder of her beames bright,
My sences lulled are in slomber of delight.
But let that same delitious Poet lend
A little leaue vnto a rusticke Muse
To sing his mistresse prayse, and let him mend,
If ought amis her liking may abuse:
Ne let his fayrest Cynthia refuse,
In mirrours more than one her selfe to see,
But either Gloriana let her chuse,
Or in Belphœbe fashioned to bee:
In th'one her rule, in th'other her rare chastitee.