| 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. | 5 |
| Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, | |
| Compels 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 | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, | |
| Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. | |
| Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, | |
| So may som gentle Muse | |
| With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| And old Damætas 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, | 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 layes. | |
| 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 wardrop wear, | |
| When first the White thorn blows; | |
| Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. | |
| Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep | 50 |
| 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: | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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. | |
| Alas! what boots it with uncessant care | |
| To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, | 65 |
| And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, | |
| Were it not better don 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 |
| (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'abhorrèd shears, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, | |
| That strain I heard was of a higher mood: | |
| But now my Oate proceeds, | |
| And listens to the Herald of the Sea | |
| That came in Neptune's plea, | 90 |
| 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 beakèd Promontory, | |
| They knew not of his story, | 95 |
| And sage Hippotades their answer brings, | |
| That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, | |
| The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, | |
| Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. | |
| It was that fatall and perfidious Bark | 100 |
| 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 | 105 |
| Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd 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 Keyes he bore of metals twain, | 110 |
| (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? | 115 |
| 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 | 120 |
| 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, | 125 |
| 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, | |
| 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, | |
| And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast | |
| Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. | 135 |
| 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, | 140 |
| 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. | 145 |
| The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. | |
| With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, | |
| And every flower that sad embroidery wears: | |
| Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, | |
| And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, | 150 |
| 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 Seas | |
| Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, | 155 |
| 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 haples youth. | |
| Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, | 165 |
| 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, | 170 |
| 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, | 175 |
| And hears the unexpressive nuptiall 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, | 180 |
| And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. | |
| Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; | |
| Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, | |
| In thy large recompense, and shalt be good | |
| To all that wander in that perilous flood. | 185 |
| 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, | 190 |
| 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. | |
