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Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50
Clos'd o'er the head of your lor'd 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: 55
Ay me! I fondly dream!
Had ye been there---for what could that have done
What could the Mnse herself that Orpbens bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
Ilis gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift lebrus 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 Neræa's hair?
Fame is the
spur that the 'clear spi'rit doth raise

70 (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 lurst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun lise. “ But not the praise," Phabus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; “ Faine is no plant that grows on mortal soil Nor in the glist'ring foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies;

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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 Heav'n expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd food,
Smooth-sliding Mincins, crown'd with vocal reeds!
That strain I heard was of a higher mood :
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea;
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon 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 sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Cámus, reverendi sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flow'r inscrib’d with woe.
66 Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?"
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,

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89. “ The herald of the sea.”.... Triton.

{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,
Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?

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Of other care they little reck’ning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learn’d angbt else the least 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs !
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and fashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

125 But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two handed engine at the door,

130 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 flow'rets of a thousand hues.

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Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,

140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

130.“ Two handed engine”...the axe of reformation.

Bring the rathe prin rose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,

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The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

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 sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurld,

155 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,

160. Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks tow'ard Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat’ry floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

160. “ The Fable of Bellerus old, &c. the Bellerian pro. montory, or Land's end in Cornwall, near which is Mount St. Michael, a fortress on a rock, named from a supposed rision or apparition of St. Michael.

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And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves;
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love,
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, 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 shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorie lay :
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay :
At last he rose, and twich'd his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

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XVII.
On the new Forcers of Conscience under the

LONG PARLIAMENT.
BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord,

And with stiff vows renounc'd his liturgy,

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