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 pensive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid Amarantus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups
To ftrew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false furmife.
Ay me! Whilft 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 moist 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-ftar 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:
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,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptial Song,
In the bleft Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops, and fweet Societies
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the fhore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
[rills, Thus fang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had ftretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western Bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew : To morrow to fresh Woods, and Paftures new.
ENCE vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred, How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all
Dwell in fome idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes poffefs, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams, Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle Penfioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddefs, fage and holy,
Hail divineft Melancholy,
Whose Saintly visage is too bright
To hit the Sense of human fight;
And therefore to our weaker view,
Ore laid with black ftaid Wisdoms hue.
Black, but fuch as in esteem,
Prince Memnons fifter might befeem,
Or that starr'd Ethiope Queen that strove
To set her beauties praise above
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended,
Yet thou art higher far defcended,
Thee bright-hair'd Vefta long of yore,
To folitary Saturn bore;
His daughter the (in Saturns raign,
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Com penfive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestick train,
And fable ftole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent fhoulders drawn.
Com, but keep thy wonted ftate,
With eev'n step, and mufing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy paffion ftill,
Forget thy felf to Marble, till
With a fad Leaden downward caft,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Mufes in a ring,
Ay round about Joves Altar fing.
And adde to these retired leasure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a Song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o're th'accuftom'd Oke;
Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Moft mufical, most Melancholy!
Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy Even-Song;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-fhaven Green,
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led aftray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhoar,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth.
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans drowfie charm,
To bless the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in fome high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unfphear
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