Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Tempered to the oaten flute;

Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

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, And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep

At pastorales non cessavere camœnæ,

Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis :
Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure læto

Capripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni;

Damætasque modos nostros longævus amabat.

Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata viden

tur

Rura-relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs!
Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum,
Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci,

Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo.
Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo
Molles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen :-
Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis
Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos;
Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæ
Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris:
Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.

Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele profundum

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream :
Ay me! I fondly dream!

Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The muse herself for her enchanting son,

Whom universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,

His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless muse?

Were it not better done as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Delicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit?

Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis
Quos veteres, Druidæ, vates, illustria servant

Nomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ, Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis. Væ mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus :

Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret?

Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei,
Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexit
Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,
Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,
Ora secundo amni missa, ac fœdata cruore,
Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?

Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque

Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,
Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camœnam ?
Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,
(Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neæram
Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?

I

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious days,

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: