CXXVIII EPITAPH. Our life is only death! time that ensu'th CXXIX Anon. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude; Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; With lucky words favour my destined urn; 20 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. L Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 30 Tow'rd heav'n's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, The willows and the hazel-copses green 35 40 Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, 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 50 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55 Ay me! I fondly dream! Had ye been there-for what could that have done, What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, Whom universal Nature did lament, 60 When by the rout that made the hideous roar 65 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 spirit doth raise- 70 To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 75 Set-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies; 80 But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, And listens to the herald of the sea 85 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings They knew not of his story; 95 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, 100 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 The pilot of the Galilean lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 110 (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115 Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold 120 What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two-handed engine at the door 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, 135 140 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 150 To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 155 160 Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; 165 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; |