Poems, Elegy
LYCIDAS.
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his paſſage from Cheſter on the Iriſh Seas, 1637. And by occaſion foretells the ruine of our corrupted Clergie then in their height.
YEt once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never ſear,
I com to pluck your Berries harſh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter conſtraint, and ſad occaſion dear,
Compells me to diſturb your ſeaſon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not ſing for Lycidas? he knew
Himſelf to ſing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He muſt not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of ſom melodious tear.
Begin then, Siſters of the ſacred well,
That from beneath the ſeat of Jove doth ſpring,
Begin, and ſomewhat loudly ſweep the ſtring.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuſe,
So may ſome gentle Muſe
With lucky words favour my deſtin'd Urn,
And as he paſſes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my ſable ſhrowd.
For we were nurſt 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 eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her ſultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the freſh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that roſe, at Ev'ning, bright,
Toward Heav'ns deſcent had ſlop'd his weſtering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad ſound would not be abſent long,
And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our ſong.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never muſt return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and deſert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,
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 layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Roſe,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Froſt to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When firſt the White Thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loſs to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorſeleſs deep
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the ſteep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, ly,
Nor on the ſhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva ſpreads her wiſard ſtream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?
What could the Muſe her ſelf that Orpheus bore,
The Muſe her ſelf for her inchanting ſon
Whom Univerſal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary viſage down the ſtream was ſent,
Down the ſwift Hebrus to the Lesbian ſhore.
Alaſs! What boots it with unceſſant care
To end the homely ſlighted Shepherds trade,
And ſtrictly meditate the thankleſs Muſe,
Were it not better don as others uſe,
To ſport with Amaryllis in the ſhade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the ſpur that the clear ſpirit doth raiſe
(That laſt infirmity of Noble mind)
To ſcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burſt out into ſudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred ſhears,
And ſlits the thin ſpun life. But not the praiſe,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal ſoil,
Nor in the gliſtering foil
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and ſpreds aloft by thoſe pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laſtly on each deed,
Of ſo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuſe, and thou honour'd floud,
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 Fellon 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 Panope 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 … Bonnet ſedge,
Inwrought with figures …im, and on the edge
Like to that ſanguine flower inſcrib'd with woe.
Ah; Who hath rest (quoth he) my deareſt pledge?
Laſt came, and laſt did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maſſy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron ſhuts amain)
He ſhook his Miter'd locks, and ſtern beſpake,
How well could I have ſpar'd for thee, young ſwain,
Anow of ſuch as for their bellies ſake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to ſcramble at the ſhearers feaſt,
And ſhove away the worthy bidden gueſt;
Blind mouthes! that ſcarce themſelves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the leaſt
That to the faithfull Herdmans 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 Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing ſed,
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 Flourets of a thouſand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whiſpers uſe,
Of ſhades and wanton winds, and guſhing brooks,
On whoſe freſh lap the ſwart Star ſparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf ſuck the honied ſhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primroſe that forſaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Geſſamine,
The white Pink, and the Panſie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-roſe, and the well attir'd Woodbine,
With Cowſlips wan that hang the penſive head,
And every flower that ſad embroidery wears:
Bid Amarantus all his beauty ſhed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ſtrew the Laureat Herſe 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 Sea
Waſh far away, where ere thy bones are hurl'd,
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,
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 haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your ſorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
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 groves, and other ſtreams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's 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' Okes 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,
And now was dropt into the Weſtern Bay;
At laſt he roſe, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to freſh Woods, and Paſtures new.