ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude; Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn; And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel 30 But, oh! 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, 40 And all their echoes, mourn: The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 51 Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Had ye been there: for what could that have done? When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Alas! what boots it with incessant care бо 70 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds! That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? 80 90 And question'd every gust, of rugged wings, That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd: Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 100 Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, " my dearest pledge?” Last came, and last did go, |