Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,
So may fome gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,
And as he paffes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my fable shrowd.
For we were nurft upon the self-same hill,
Fed the fame flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rofe, at Ev'ning, bright, 30
Toward Heav'ns descent had flop'd his westering
wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad found would not be abfent long,
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn.
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy foft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their
wardrob wear,
gay
When firft the White Thorn blows;
[deep
Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, ly,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there for what could that have don?
What could the Mufe her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her felf for her inchanting 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 swift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore.
Alafs! What boots it with unceffant care
To end the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Neard's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise 70
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
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 repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 80
But lives and fpreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes 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 floud,
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 Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,
90
He afk'd the Waves, and afk'd the Fellon Winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory;
They knew not of his story,
And fage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'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'eclipse, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Two maffy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron fhuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that fanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Laft came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow of fuch as for their bellies fake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to scramble at the fhearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how
to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! 121
What recks it them? What need they? They are
fped;
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Befides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither caft
Their Bells, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all
your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf fuck the honied fhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forfaken dies.
139
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Geffamine,
The white Pink, and the Panfie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-rofe, and the well attir'd Woodbine,
With Cowflips wan that hang the penfive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears :
Bid Amarantus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups
with tears,
To ftrew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and founding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So finks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 171 So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high, [waves Through the dear might of him that walk'd the Where other groves, and other streams along,
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