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DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed
to be dead.
fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Or, 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tend thoug on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed; Belov'd, till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead,
e Innrednom of Serenser.
Burkil que animæ tentes in limine primo.
V. Imitation. á sad mingled sounds and infant plaints we hear,
that pierce the entrance shrill, and wound the tender ear, A
It me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn, Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise, Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize: Lend me thy clarion, Goddess ! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we school-mistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grie sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame, And oft times, on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did stowe, Whillow a twig of small regard to see, Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassal's mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blow, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low, And as they look'd, they found their horror grew, Aud shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not may conceive)
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders throws, A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair: 'Twas her own labor did the fleece prepare; And, sooth, to say, her pupils, rang'd around, Thro' pious awe did term it passing rare, For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on
ground. Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear, Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear; Ne would esteem him act as mought behove Who should not honor'd eld with these revere; For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame, Which, ever and anon, impell’d by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favor did her past deportment claim: And if neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, Whatsin it were to waste the smallest crum she found. Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak; That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry dew, Where no vain flow'r disclos'd a gaudy streak, But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew; The tufted basil, pun provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue, The lowly gill, that never dares to climb, And more I fain would sing,disdaining here to rhyme.
Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
dwell. Here oft the dame, on Sabbatli's decent eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete; If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer-seat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song intreat, All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they
to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleod, And tortious death was true Devotion's meed; And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did burn: Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er