LYCIDA S.

IN this Monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'd, in his passage from Chefter, on the Irish feas, 1637. And by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.

BY THE SAME.

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more.

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-fear,

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 fad occafion dear
Compells me to disturb your feafon 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
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry biere
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind
Without the meed of fom melodious tear.

10

Begin then, fifters of the facred well,

15

That from beneath the feat of Joue doth spring;

Begin, and fomwhat loudly fweep the string:

Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe:

With lucky words favor my deftin'd urn,

And as he paffes turn,

And bid fair peace

be to my fable fhrowd:

For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,

20

Fed the fame flock, by fountain, fhade, 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 fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with those fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose 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,

30

Rough fatyrs danc'd, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad found would not be abfent 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, fhepherd, thee the woods and defert caves With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'regrown,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or froft to flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the white thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.

50

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 fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard stream: 55 Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye

bin there---for what could that have don? What could the Mufe herself that Orpheus bore? The Mufe herself for her inchanting fon, Whom univerfal nature did lament,

60

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore.
Alas! what boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherds trade, 65
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better don as others ufe,
To sport with Amaryllis in the fhade,

Or with the tangles of Nera's hair?

Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears, 75
And flits the thin fpun 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 laftly on each deed,

Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

O fountain Arethufe, and thou honour'd floud, 85 Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my oat proceeds,

And liftens to the herald of the fea

That came in Neptune's plea ;

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds,

90

What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ?
And question'd every guft of rugged winds
That blows from off each beaked promontory;

They knew not of his story,

And fage Hippotades their anfwer brings,

95

That not a blaft was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.

Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark, That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105
Like to that fanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Laft came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keyes he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)

110

He shook his miter'd locks, and stern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow of fuch as for their bellies fake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers feaft,
And shove away the worthy bidden gueft;
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how
to hold

121

A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the leaft
That to the faithfull herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? what need they? they are
fped;

And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Befides what the grim woolf with privy paw

H