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Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable sounds, yet as we go,
Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can show,
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all that are of noble stem
Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

O'er the smooth enamel'd green,
Where no print of step hath been,

Follow me as I sing

And touch the warbled string,
Under the shady roof
Of branching elm star-proof.

Follow mc,
I will bring you where she sits,
Clad in splendor as befits

Her deity.
Such a rural queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.

III. SONG.

Nymphs and Shepherds dance no more
By sandy Ladon's lillied banks.

On old Lycaeus or Cyllene hoar
Trip no more in twilight rank*,

Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the story Maenalus
Bring your flocks and live with us,
Here ye shall have greater grace
To serve the Lady of this place.
Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.

LYCIDAS.

In this monody the Author bewails a liarnedfriend, unfortunately dro-xned in his passage from Chester, on the Irish seas, 1637, and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.

IlT once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with fore'd fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not flote upon his vrat'ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some 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 favor my destin'd urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud:
K

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 grey-fly winds her sultry horn",
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, [wheel.
Tow'ards Heav'n's descent had slop'd his west'ring
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven 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 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, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel 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 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 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 wisard stream:

Ay me 1 I fondly dream

Had ye been 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,

His goary 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 meditale the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles pf 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 days; 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, Phcebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glist'ring foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad Rumor lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

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