CXXIV SONNET. Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 5 IO CXXV John Donne. Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude; Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: 5 10 Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn; And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 15 20 235 30 westering Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 35 But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! 40 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 first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing 'on the steep, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55 Had ye been there-for what could that have done The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 60 When by the rout that made the hideous roar 65 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 To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 75 Nor in the glistering foil Set-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies; 80 But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, 85 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 asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; 100 Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. 105 'Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?' Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, IIO (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,) He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake, 'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115 Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 120 What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; L And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 125 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 135 140 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: 150 To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 155 |