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lortals that would follow me,
Love Virtue, she alone is free,
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

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L Y C I D A S.

In this monody the author bewails a learned friend *, unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637, and by occasion 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 fore'd singers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. J

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 rhyme.
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.

* Mr. Edward King, son of Sir John King Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author.



ence 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 bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurst upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the fame 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 asield, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright, 30

Tow'ard Heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering

wheel. Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad found 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, 40 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, 45

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,



Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When sirst 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 wifard 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 univerfal nature did lament, 60

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, 65

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse I
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 spi'rit doth raise jm
(That last insirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to sind,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Gomes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, 75
And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Vol. XII. M Fame


Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

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

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, 85
Smooth-Aiding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea; 90

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this' gende swais?
And question'd every gust of rugged winds
That blows from off each beaked promontory;
They knew not of his story, 95

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and persidious bark ICO

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing flow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with sigures dim, and on the edge 105

Like to that sanguin flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,


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