Sadly fits th' Affyrian queen;
But far above in spangled fheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,
Holds his dear Pfyche sweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labors long,
Till free confent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blifsful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; fo Jove hath fworn.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earth's end,
In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish feas, 1637, and by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.
ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels 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 fing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may fome gentle Muse
With lucky words favor my destin'd urn,
And as he passes 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 25
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright, 30
Tow'ard Heav'n's descent had flop'd his weft'ring
Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, (wheel.
Temper'd to th' oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35
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 desert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The willows and the hazel copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,
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 frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first 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,
where Deva spreads her wifard stream:55 Ay me! I fondly dream
been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself for her inchanting son,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the ftream was sent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, 65
And ftrickly 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?
Fame is the spur that the clear spi'rit doth raise 70 (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 burft out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears, 75
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, 85 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 had 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 fage 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' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105
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