Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can show,
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,

And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,
Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

II. SONG.

O'er the smooth enamell'd green,
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,

And touch the warbled string,
Under the shady roof

Of branching elm, star-proof.
Follow me;

I will bring you where she sits,
Clad in splendour, as befits
Her deity.

Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

III. SONG.

Nymphs and shepherds, dance no more

By sandy Ladon's lilied banks;
On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks;
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Mænalus

Bring your flocks, and live with us;
Here ye shall have greater grace,

To serve the lady of this place.

Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,

Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

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MINOR POEMS.

ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude;
And, with forced fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,

Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew,
Himself, to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn;
And, as he passes, turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute;

Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long:
And old Damotas loved to hear our song.

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But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40