Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced But now my task is smoothly done : I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend, To the corners of the moon. Heaven itself would stoop to her. ΠΟΙΟ 1020 LYCIDAS. In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then ir their height. 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 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, IQ 20 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; Tempered to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas loved to hear our song. But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! 30 Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, The willows, and the hazel copses green, 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, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless 50 deep 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 yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. "Had ye been there," . . . for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 60 When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise To scorn delights and live laborious days; Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned 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, 70 80 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: The air was calm, and on the level brine 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, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (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! 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 learnt aught else the least 120 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 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, 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 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.” |