Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,
So may fome gentle Muse
With lucky words favor my deftin'd urn,
And as he paffes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the ftar that rofe, at evening, bright,
Tow'ard Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his westering wheel.
Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad found would not be abfent long,
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return !
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copfes green,
Shall now no more be feen,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or froft to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When firft the white-thorn 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 steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream
Ay me! I fondly dream
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Mufe herfelf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe herfelf for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore?
Alas! what boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To fport with Amaryllis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spi'rit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind) |
To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
VOL. III.
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and fpreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thou honor'd flood,
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood :
But now my oat proceeds,
And liftens to the herald of the fea
That came in Neptune's plea;
He afk'd the waves, and afk'd the fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every gust of rugged winds
That blows from off each beaked promontory;
They knew not of his story,
And fage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fanguin flower infcrib'd with woe.
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)
He fhook his miter'd locks, and stern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young fwain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the fhearers' feaft,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that fcarce themselves know how to A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought 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 lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched ftraw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace; and nothing said,
But that two-handed engin at the door,
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That fhrunk thy ftreams; return, Sicilian Mufe,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied fhowers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The mufk-rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty fhed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrow the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpofe a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false furmise.
Ay me! Whilft thee the fhores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the ftormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
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 forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,
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