XVII.

DA

LYCI

S.

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.

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ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere,
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 fad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feafon 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 rhyme.
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 feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly sweep the string.

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* Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author.

Hence

Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Muse

With lucky words favor my deftin'd urn,

And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace

be to my

fable fhroud.

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For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,

Fed the fame flock by fountain, fhade, 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 star that rose, at evening, bright,

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Tow'ard Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his weftering 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!

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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 seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

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Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or

Or froft to flowers, that their gay

When firft the white-thorn blows;

wardrobe wear,

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds' 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 wifard stream: 55
Ay me! I fondly dream

Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Mufe herfelf that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was fent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore?
Alas! what boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

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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 spur 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.

M

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Fame

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 spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Of fo 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 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 stray'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' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

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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?
Laft came, and last did go,

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The

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain,

(The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)

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He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reckoning make,

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Than how to scramble at the fhearers' feaft,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;

[hold

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Blind mouths! that fcarce themselves know how to A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe 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 straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But fwoll'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 smite no more. Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That fhrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 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 shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whofe fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,

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Throw