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In this Monody the Author bewails a learned
Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his paffage form Chefer on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the run of our corrupted Clersy then in their height.
Et once more, Oye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear,
I come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compells me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to ling, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Vowept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begio then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
begin, and somewhat louder sweep the string,
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd. Urna
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable broud.
For we were nurst upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the same flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt’ning our flocks with the frefh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright, .
Toward Heav'ns descent had flop'd his westering
Mean while the Rural dirties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' Qaten Flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad found would not be absent long, .
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desart Caves
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vinç o’ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazel Copses green,
Shall now no more be feen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to their soft lages,
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weaning Herds that graze,
Ou Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When fiift the White Thoin blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
Clos?d o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the fleep,
where your old Bards, the famous Druids, ly,
Nor on the Maggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deus spreads her wisard Aream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there---for what could that have done?
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 shore.
Alas! What boats, it with unceliant care To tend the homely fighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thanklefs Muse, Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the Made, Or with the tangles of Neara's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit desh raise (That last infimity 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 th' abhorred hearty: And fits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,.. Phæbus reply'd, and couch'd my trembling cars s.
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,
And perfet witness of all-judging fove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-Niding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,
And liftens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plca,
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon Winds
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle Swaiq?
And question'd every gust of rugged wings
That blows from oft each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blaft was from his dungeon fray'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 sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
awrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe, Ab ; who hath reft (quoth he) my dearef pledge?
Lat came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two mally Keys he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron huts amain)
He took his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake s
How well could I have spard for thee, youog swain,
Adow of such as for their bellies sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold:
Of other care they little reck’ning make,
Then how to fcrainble at the thearers feast,
And love away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to
A fheep-hook,or have learn’d ought els the leaft (hold
That to the faithful Herdmans art belongs.!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped s
And when they lift, their lean and Alafay 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 draws
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and no:hing led,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and (mite no more.
Return Alphens, the dread voice is paft,
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,