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With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown, 40
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows and the Hazle-Copses green
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
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 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
51 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:
Ay me, I fondly dream !
bin there—for what could that have done ?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son
Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ?
Alas! What boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherd's trade,
And strictly 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 spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,'
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
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 ?
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 ;
The Air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panopë with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious Bark
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
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
Two massy Keys he bore of metals twain, (The Golden
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 !
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
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the least
That to the faithful Herdman's art belongs !
What recks it them? What need they? They are
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,
But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Besides what the grim Wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said ;
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams ; Return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bells and Flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing Violet,
The Musk-rose, and the well-attired Woodbine,
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears
To strew the Laureat Hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
160 Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ;Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth !
Weep no more, woeful Shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; So sinks the day-star in the Ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves; Where, other
and other streams along, With Nectar
Locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more ;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’ Oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray ; He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay : And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190 And now was dropt into the Western bay ; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
WHEN I would muse in boyhood
green woods among,
And nurse resolves and fancies
Because the world was young,
It was not foes to conquer,
Nor sweethearts to be kind,
But it was friends to die for
That I would seek and find.
I sought them far and found them,
The sure, the straight, the brave
The hearts I lost my own to,