Towards Heav'ns descent had flop'd his weftering Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, [wheel
Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad found would not be absent long, And old Damatas 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.
The Willows, and the Hazel Copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy foft layes,
As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their
When first the white Thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? [deep
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lye,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
been there for what could that have done? What could the Muse her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe her self for her enchanting Son,
Whom Univerfal Nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was fent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shoar.
Alas! What boots it with unceffant care
To end the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better done as others use,"
To fport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neara's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That laft infirmity of Noble mind)
To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And flits the thin fpun Life, But not the praise,
Phabus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and fpreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood,
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 Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon Winds,
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 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 perfidious Bark
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that Sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His Mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fanguine flower infcrib'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 Keys he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and ftern bespake,
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?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
That how to scramble at the fhearers feaft,
And fhove away the worthy bidden guest ;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the least
That to the faithful Herdman's Art belongs!
[fped;
What recks it them? What need they? They are
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,
But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing fed,
But that two-handed Engine at the door,
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That fhrunk thy ftreams, Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither caft
Their Bells, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye Valleys low where the mild whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
On whose fresh lap the fwart Star fparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green terf fuck the honied fhowers,
And purple all the Ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine
The white Pink, and the Pansie freak with jeat,
The glowing Violet,
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