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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 hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the daystar 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 sunk 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 locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the bless'd 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,

* A Cornish giant.

† Mount St. Michael ; not far from the Land's End in Cornwall,

whence at low water it is accessible. The guarded mount, says Mr. Warton, is simply the fortified mount; and the great vision is the famous apparition of St. Michael, who is said to have appeared on the top of the mount, and to have directed a church to be bajlt there.

1 Or Namantia; a town of Old Castile, once highly celebrated in the Spanish history. Todd.

♡ A description of our Saviour.

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

While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropp'd into the western bay ;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.




Immodicis brevis est ætas, et rara senectns.


It was a dismal and fearful night, [light,

Scarce could the morn drive on the unwilling When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,

By something liker death possess’d.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever and my life to moan?

0, thou hast left me all alone!

Thy soul and body, when Death's agony

Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend! do part from thee. My dearest friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do,

If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day;

As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by

Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure's gone! why do I stay?
He was my friend, the truest friend on earth ;
A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth ;
Nor did we envy the most sounding name

By friendship given of old to fame.
None but his brethren he and sisters knew,

Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;

And even in that we did agree,
For much above myself I loved them too.
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love,

Wonder'd at us from above!
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;

But search of deep Philosophy,

Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know

The love betwixt us two? VOL. IV.


Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;

Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid ! Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, Till all the tuneful birds to’your boughs they bring; No tuneful birds play with their wonted cheer,

And call the learned youths to hear; No whistling winds through the glad branches fly:

But all, with sad solemnity,

Mute and unmoved be, Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie. To him my Muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain : He loved my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend,

Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight:

Be this my latest verse,

With which I now adorn his hearse;
And this my grief, without thy help, shall write.
Had I a wreath of bays about my brow,
I should contemn that flourishing honour now;
Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear

It rage and crackle there.
Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me;

Cypress, which tombs does beautify:

Not Phoebus grieved, so much as I, For him who first was made that mournful tree. Large was his soul ; as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have,

But low and humble as his grave:

So high, that all the Virtues there did come,

As to their chiefest seat

Conspicuous and great;
So low, that for me too it made a room.
He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
That we, mistaken mortals! pleasure call;
Was fill'd with innocent gallantry and truth,

Triumphant o'er the sins of youth.
He, like the stars, to which he now is gone,

That shine with beams like flame,

Yet burn not with the same, Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, As if for him Knowledge had rather sought: Nor did more learning ever crowded lie

In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,

Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue, Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. So strong a wit did Nature to him frame As all things but his judgment overcame; His judgment like the heavenly moon did show,

Tempering that mighty sea below. Oh! had he lived in Learning's world, what bound

Would have been able to control

His overpowering soul! We have lost in him arts that not yet are found. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget; And, ben deep talk wisdom came in view,

Retired, and gave to them their due:

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