Poem by Michael Drayton

An Ode Written in the Peak

THIS while we are abroad
  Shall we not touch our lyre?
Shall we not sing an ode?
  Shall that holy fire,
In us that strongly glowed,
  In this cold air expire?

Long since the summer laid
  Her lusty bravery down,
The autumn half is way’d,
  And Boreas ’gins to frown,
Since now I did behold
  Great Brute’s first builded town.

Though in the utmost Peak
  Awhile we do remain,
Amongst the mountains bleak
  Exposed to sleet and rain,
No sport our hours shall break
  To exercise our vein.

What though bright Phœbus’ beams
  Refresh the southern ground,
And though the princely Thames
  With beauteous nymphs abound,
And by old Camber’s streams
  Be many wonders found:

Yet many rivers clear
  Here glide in silver swathes,
And what of all most dear,
  Buxton’s delicious baths,
Strong ale and noble cheer,
  To assuage breem winter’s scathes.

Those grim and horrid caves,
  Whose looks affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saves
  What she would not bewray,
Our better leisure craves
  And doth invite our lay.

In places far or near,
  Or famous or obscure,
Where wholesome is the air,
  Or where the most impure,
All times and everywhere
  The Muse is still in ure.

1. Sonnet 16. Mongst all the Creatures in this Spacious Round
2. Sonnet 38. Sitting Alone, Love
3. Roc
4. Sonnet 24. I Hear Some Say
5. Sonnet 23. Love, Banish'd Heav'n

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