LYCIDA S.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chefter on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

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Et once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion 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 fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himfelf to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.

Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat louder fweep the ftring:-
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe.
So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favour my deftin'd Urn,
And as he paffes turn,

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And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the self-fame hill,

Fed the fame 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 fultry horn,

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Batt'ning

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Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rofe, at ev'ning, bright,
Toward Heav'ns defcent had flop'd his weftering 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 found would not be abfent long, 35
And old. Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never muft return!

Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defart Caves With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copfes green,

Shall now no more he feen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft layes.
As killing as the canker to the Rofe,

Or taint-worm to the weaning Herds that graze,
Or froft to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When firft the white thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.

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Where were ye Nymphs when the remorfelefs 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, ly Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wifard ftream: Ah me, I fondly dream!

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Had ye been there for what could that have done?
What could the Mufe her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe her felf, for her inchanting fon
Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore.

Alas! What boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted Shepherds trade,

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And