« AnteriorContinuar »
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
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 sound would not be absent long, And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thymeand thegadding Vine o’regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their
wear, When first the White Thorn blows;
41 51 I21
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. [deep
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 shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had
bin there for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore.
Alass! What boots it with uncessant care To end the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorred shears, And Nits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phæbus 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,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
90 He ask'd the Waves, and ask'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 sage 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 sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious Bark Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That funk so low that facred head of thine.
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 sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two maffy Keyes he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides 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 cast Their Bells, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
150 To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so 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 hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision 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 sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks 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,