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.
YET once more,O ye laurels,and once more,Ye myrtles brown,with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad 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 Himself to sing,and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept,and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin,then,Sisters of the sacred well 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 favour my destined urn,And as he passes turn,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;Together both,ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field,and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 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 From the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But,oh!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 copses green,Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,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 shepherd's ear.
Where were ye,Nymphs,when the remorseless deep 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.
Ay me!I fondly dream RHad ye been there,S ...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,When,by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas!what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely,slighted,shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ?
Were it not better done,as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (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 the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life.RBut not the praise,"Phoebus replied,and touched my trembling ears:
RFame 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 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 heaven expect thy meed."O fountain Arethuse,and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius,crowned 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.
He asked the waves,and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory.
They knew not of his story;
