I. SONG.

Look Nymphs, and Shepherds look, What fudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence defcry, Too divine to be mistook!

This, this is the

To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our folemn fearth hath end.
Fame, that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erft fo lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accufe
Of detraction from her praife;
Lefs than half we find expreft,
Envy bid conceal the reft.

Mark what radiant ftate fhe spreads,
In le round her fhining throne,
Shooting her beams like filver threads;
This, this is the alone,

Sitting like a goddess bright,
In the centre of her light.
Might fhe the wife Latona be,
Or the towered Cybele,

Mother of a hundred gods
Juno dares not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparallel'd?

A: they come forward, the GENIUS of the wood appears, and turning toward them, Speaks.

GEN. Stay, gentle Swains, for tho' in this dif guife,

I fee bright honour fparkle through your eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung
Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluce
Stole under feas to meet his Arethufe;
And ye, the breathing rofes of the wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours, and free intent,
Was all in honour and devotion meant
To the great miftrefs of yon ptincely fhrine,
Whom, with low reverence, I adore as mine,

(And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this night's glad folemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What fhallow fearching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft, amidst thefe fhades alone,
Have fat to wonder at, and gaze upon :
For know by lot from Jove I am the power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,
To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my plants I fave from nightly ill
Of noifome winds, and blafting vapours chill:
And from the boughs bruth off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Or what the crofs dire-looking planet fmites,
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites.
When Ev'ning grey doth rife, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground,
And early, e'er the odorous breath of Morn
Awakes the flumb'ring leaves, or taffel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, hafte I all about,
Number my ranks, and vifit ev'ry sprout
With puiffant words, and murmurs made to

blefs;

But elfe in deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath lock'd up mortal fenfe, then liften I
To the celestial Sirens' harmony,
That fit upon the nine infolded fpheres,
And fing to thofe that hold the vital fhears,
And turn the adamantine fpindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such fweet compulfion doth in mufic lie,
To lull the daughters of Neceflity,
And keep unfteady Nature to her law,
And the low world in meafur'd motion draw
After the heav'nly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with grofs unpurged ear;
And yet fuch music worthiest were to blaze
The peerless height of her immortal praise,
Whofe luftre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable founds, yet as we go,
Whate'er the skill of leffer gods can shew

I will affay, her worth to celebrate,
And fo attend ye toward her glittering ftate;
Where ye may all that are of noble stem
Approach, and kifs her facred vesture's hem.

2. SONG.

O'ER the smooth enamel'd green, Where no print of step hath been Follow me as I fing,

And touch the warbled ftring,

Under the fhady roof

Of branching elm star proof.
Follow me,

I will bring you where he fits,
Clad in splendour as befits
Her deity.

Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

3. SONG. NYMPHS and Shepherds, dance no more By fandy Ladon's lilied banks, On old Lycæus or Cyllene hoar

Trip no more in twilight ranks, Tho' Erymanthy our lofs deplore,

A better foil fhall give ye thanks, From the ftory Manalus Bring your flocks, and live with us; Here ye fhall have greater grace, To ferve the lady of this place. Tho' Syrinx your Pan's mirefs were, Yet Syrinx well might wait on her. Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not feen.

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never foar,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your seafon due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead e'er his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty thime.
He must not float upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the Sacred Well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth fpring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,
So may fome gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my deftin'd urn,
And as he paffes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud :
For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, fhade, and rill.
Together both, e'er the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the Morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the ftar that rofe at evening bright,
Tow'rds Heav'n's defcent had flopt his weft'ring
wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'a to th' oaten flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad found would not be abfent long,.
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never muft return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the woods and defert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vinc o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The willows and the hazel copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rofe,

Or taint worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or froft to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherd's ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? [deep For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream

Had you been there; for what could that have done?

What could the Mufe herfelf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe herfelf for her enchanting fon,
Whom univerfal Nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lefbian fhore?

Alas! what boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others ufe,
To fport with Amaryllis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Nexra's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear fp'rit doth raife
(That laft infirmity of noble mind)
To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows in mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad Rumour lies,
But lives, and fpreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thou honour'd flood,
Smooth fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my oat proceeds,

And liftens to the herald of the fea

That came in Neptune's plea ;

He afk'd the waves, and afk'd the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every guft of rugged winds
That blows from off each beak'd promontory;
They knew not of his story,

And fage Hippotades their answer brings,
'That not a blaft was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that fanguine flower, infcrib'd with woe. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my deareft pledge! Laft came, and laft did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)
He shook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,
How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young
Swain,

Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to fcramble at the fhearer's feast,
And fhove away the worthy bidden gueft;
Blind mouths! that scarce themfelves know how
to hold

A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the leaft
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? they are
fped;

And when they lift, their lean and flashy fongs
Grate on their ferannel pipes of wretched ftraw;
The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mift they
draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Befides what the grim wolf, with privy paw,
Daily devours apace; and nothing said,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That fhrunk thy ftreams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flow'rets of a thoufand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers ufe
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gufhin brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart ftar rarely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The mufk-rofe, and the well attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan, that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid Amarantus all his beauty fhed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftow the laureat herfe where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpofe a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with falfe furmife.
Ay me! whilft thee the fhores and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the ftormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion of the guarded mount
Looks tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hopeless youth.

Weep no more, woeful fhepherds, weep no more;
For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,
Sunk tho' he be beneath the wat'ry floor;
So finks the day-ftar in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-fpangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning fky.
So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high.
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the

waves,

Where other groves and other ftreams along,
With nectar hue his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptial fong,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of Joy and Love.
There entertain him all the faints above,
In folemn troops and fweet focieties,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th' oaks and rills,
While the ftill Morn went out with fandals gray,
He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At laft he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.