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The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes.

Spir. To the ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid air ggo

All amidst the gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers

Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, 995

The Graces, and the rosy-bofom'd Hours,

Thither all their bounties bring:

That there eternal Summer dwells,

And west-winds with musky-wing

About the cedarn alleys fling 1000

Nard and Cassia's balmy smells.

Iris there with humid bow

Waters the odorous banks, that blow

Flowers of more mingled hue

Than her purfled scarf can shew, 1005

And drenches with Elysian dew

(List mortals, if your ears be true)

Beds of hyacinth and roses,

Where young Adonis oft reposes,

Waxing well of his deep wound 1010

In flumber soft, and on the ground

Sadly Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;

But far above in spangled sheen

Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'd, 1015

After her wand'ring labors long,

Till free consent the Gods among

Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted side

Two blissful twins are to be born, 1020

Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.

But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin flow doth bend, 1025 And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love Virtue, she alone is free,
She can teach ye how to clime 1030

Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

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XVII.
L T C I D A s.

In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown d in his passage from Chester on the Irifli seas, 1637, and by occafwn foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere,
I come 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 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 rhime.
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15

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, 20

And as he passes turn,

And

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
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 evening, bright, 30
Toward Heav'n's descent had flop'd his west'ring
Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, (wheel.
Temper'd to th'oaten flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven 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 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. 41

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, 45

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas,- thy loss to shepherds ear.

K k Where Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 51

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 :55

Ay me! 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 inchanting 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 Qiore?

Alas! What boots it with incessant care To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, 65 And strickly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done 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 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, 75 And flits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phœbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;

Fame

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