Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, LYCIDAS. In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height. 7 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 5 IO 15 Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. So may some gentle Museene i With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20 And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; 25 We drove a-field, and both together heard Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 30 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; Tempered to the oaten flute Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 35 But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, 40 45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's 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 Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 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 enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, 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 75 80 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; 66 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 85 That came in Neptune's plea. 90 He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? That blows from off each beakéd promontory. They knew not of his story; 95 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 100 Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; 105 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 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! 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 I 20 What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125 But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said. But that two-handed engine at the door 130 135 140 The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, |