FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,Which is no more then what is false and vain,And meerly mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain.For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,Then long Eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss;And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,When every thing that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,Which is no more then what is false and vain,And meerly mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain.For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,Then long Eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss;And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,When every thing that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,Which is no more then what is false and vain,And meerly mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain.For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,Then long Eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss;And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,When every thing that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
309.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,And to our high-rais’d phantasie present,That undisturbèd Song of pure content,Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throneTo him that sits theronWith Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubick host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal Harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,Hymns devout and holy PsalmsSinging everlastingly;That we on Earth with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion’d sinJarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair musick that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’dIn perfect Diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,And to our high-rais’d phantasie present,That undisturbèd Song of pure content,Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throneTo him that sits theronWith Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubick host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal Harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,Hymns devout and holy PsalmsSinging everlastingly;That we on Earth with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion’d sinJarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair musick that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’dIn perfect Diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,And to our high-rais’d phantasie present,That undisturbèd Song of pure content,Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throneTo him that sits theronWith Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubick host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal Harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,Hymns devout and holy PsalmsSinging everlastingly;That we on Earth with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion’d sinJarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair musick that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’dIn perfect Diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
310.
HENCE loathèd MelancholyOf Cerberus and blackest midnight born,In Stygian Cave forlorn’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.Find out som uncouth cell,Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,And the night-Raven sings;There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,As ragged as thy Locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But com thou Goddes fair and free,In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;Or whether (as som Sager sing)The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,Zephir with Aurora playing,As he met her once a Maying,There on Beds of Violets blew,And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,So bucksom, blith, and debonair.Haste thee nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrincled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Com, and trip it as ye goOn the light fantastick toe,And in thy right hand lead with thee,The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crueTo live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-towre in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to com in spight of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine.While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darknes thin,And to the stack, or the Barn dore,Stoutly struts his Dames before,Oft listening how the Hounds and hornChearly rouse the slumbring morn,From the side of som Hoar Hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Som time walking not unseenBy Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Wher the great Sun begins his state,Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.While the Plowman neer at hand,Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his sithe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the Lantskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,Where the nibling flocks do stray,Mountains on whose barren brestThe labouring clouds do often rest:Meadows trim with Daisies pide,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers, and Battlements it seesBoosom’d high in tufted Trees,Wher perhaps som beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two agèd Okes,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Hearbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or if the earlier season leadTo the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,Som times with secure delightThe up-land Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;And young and old com forth to playOn a Sunshine Holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail,Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stones told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat,She was pincht, and pull’d she sed,And he by Friars Lanthorn ledTells how the drudging Goblin swet,To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,When in one night, ere glimps of morn,His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the CornThat ten day-labourers could not end,Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And Crop-full out of dores he flings,Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.Towred Cities please us then,And the busie humm of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eiesRain influence, and judge the priseOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry,Such sights as youthfull Poets dreamOn Summer eeves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,Married to immortal verseSuch as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running;Untwisting all the chains that tyThe hidden soul of harmony.That Orpheus self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heapt Elysian flowres, and hearSuch streins as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half regain’d Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
HENCE loathèd MelancholyOf Cerberus and blackest midnight born,In Stygian Cave forlorn’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.Find out som uncouth cell,Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,And the night-Raven sings;There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,As ragged as thy Locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But com thou Goddes fair and free,In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;Or whether (as som Sager sing)The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,Zephir with Aurora playing,As he met her once a Maying,There on Beds of Violets blew,And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,So bucksom, blith, and debonair.Haste thee nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrincled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Com, and trip it as ye goOn the light fantastick toe,And in thy right hand lead with thee,The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crueTo live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-towre in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to com in spight of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine.While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darknes thin,And to the stack, or the Barn dore,Stoutly struts his Dames before,Oft listening how the Hounds and hornChearly rouse the slumbring morn,From the side of som Hoar Hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Som time walking not unseenBy Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Wher the great Sun begins his state,Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.While the Plowman neer at hand,Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his sithe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the Lantskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,Where the nibling flocks do stray,Mountains on whose barren brestThe labouring clouds do often rest:Meadows trim with Daisies pide,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers, and Battlements it seesBoosom’d high in tufted Trees,Wher perhaps som beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two agèd Okes,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Hearbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or if the earlier season leadTo the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,Som times with secure delightThe up-land Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;And young and old com forth to playOn a Sunshine Holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail,Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stones told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat,She was pincht, and pull’d she sed,And he by Friars Lanthorn ledTells how the drudging Goblin swet,To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,When in one night, ere glimps of morn,His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the CornThat ten day-labourers could not end,Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And Crop-full out of dores he flings,Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.Towred Cities please us then,And the busie humm of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eiesRain influence, and judge the priseOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry,Such sights as youthfull Poets dreamOn Summer eeves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,Married to immortal verseSuch as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running;Untwisting all the chains that tyThe hidden soul of harmony.That Orpheus self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heapt Elysian flowres, and hearSuch streins as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half regain’d Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
HENCE loathèd MelancholyOf Cerberus and blackest midnight born,In Stygian Cave forlorn’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.Find out som uncouth cell,Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,And the night-Raven sings;There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,As ragged as thy Locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But com thou Goddes fair and free,In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;Or whether (as som Sager sing)The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,Zephir with Aurora playing,As he met her once a Maying,There on Beds of Violets blew,And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,So bucksom, blith, and debonair.Haste thee nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrincled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Com, and trip it as ye goOn the light fantastick toe,And in thy right hand lead with thee,The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crueTo live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-towre in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to com in spight of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine.While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darknes thin,And to the stack, or the Barn dore,Stoutly struts his Dames before,Oft listening how the Hounds and hornChearly rouse the slumbring morn,From the side of som Hoar Hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Som time walking not unseenBy Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Wher the great Sun begins his state,Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.While the Plowman neer at hand,Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his sithe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the Lantskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,Where the nibling flocks do stray,Mountains on whose barren brestThe labouring clouds do often rest:Meadows trim with Daisies pide,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers, and Battlements it seesBoosom’d high in tufted Trees,Wher perhaps som beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two agèd Okes,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Hearbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or if the earlier season leadTo the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,Som times with secure delightThe up-land Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;And young and old com forth to playOn a Sunshine Holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail,Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stones told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat,She was pincht, and pull’d she sed,And he by Friars Lanthorn ledTells how the drudging Goblin swet,To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,When in one night, ere glimps of morn,His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the CornThat ten day-labourers could not end,Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And Crop-full out of dores he flings,Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.Towred Cities please us then,And the busie humm of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eiesRain influence, and judge the priseOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry,Such sights as youthfull Poets dreamOn Summer eeves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,Married to immortal verseSuch as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running;Untwisting all the chains that tyThe hidden soul of harmony.That Orpheus self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heapt Elysian flowres, and hearSuch streins as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half regain’d Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
311.
HENCE vain deluding joyes,The brood of folly without father bred,How little you bested,Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;Dwell in som idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,Hail divinest Melancholy,Whose Saintly visage is too brightTo hit the Sense of human sight;And therfore to our weaker view,Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.Black, but such as in esteem,Prince Memnons sister might beseem,Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that stroveTo set her beauties praise aboveThe Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended,Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she (in Saturns raign,Such mixture was not held a stain)Oft in glimmering Bowres, and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida’s inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestick train,And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,Over thy decent shoulders drawn.Com, but keep thy wonted state,With eev’n step, and musing gate,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There held in holy passion still,Forget thy self to Marble, tillWith a sad Leaden downward cast,Thou fix them on the earth as fast.And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ring,Ay round about Joves Altar sing.And adde to these retirèd Leasure,That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,Him that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,The Cherub Contemplation,And the mute Silence hist along,’Less Philomel will daign a Song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of night,While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven Green,To behold the wandring Moon,Riding neer her highest noon,Like one that had bin led astrayThrough the Heav’ns wide pathles way;And oft, as if her head she bow’d,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off Curfeu soundOver som wide-water’d shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit.Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belmans drousie charm,To bless the dores from nightly harm:Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,Be seen in som high lonely Towr,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice great Hermes, or unsphearThe spirit of Plato to unfoldWhat Worlds, or what vast Regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those Dæmons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith Planet, or with Element.Som time let Gorgeous TragedyIn Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,Or the tale of Troy divine.Or what (though rare) of later age,Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæeus from his bowerOr bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek.Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canace to wife,That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,On which the Tartar King did ride;And if ought els, great Bards beside,In sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;Of Forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant then meets the ear.Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appeer,Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont,With the Attick Boy to hunt,But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,While rocking Winds are Piping loud,Or usher’d with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the russling Leaves,With minute drops from off the Eaves.And when the Sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me Goddes bringTo archèd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,Of Pine, or monumental Oake,Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke,Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.There in close covert by som Brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from Day’s garish eie,While the Bee with Honied thie,That at her flowry work doth sing,And the Waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;And let som strange mysterious dream,Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,Of lively portrature display’d,Softly on my eye-lids laid.And as I wake, sweet musick breathAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by som spirit to mortals good,Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.But let my due feet never fail,To walk the studious Cloysters pale,And love the high embowèd Roof,With antick Pillars massy proof,And storied Windows richly dight,Casting a dimm religious light.There let the pealing Organ blow,To the full voic’d Quire below,In Service high, and Anthems cleer,As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,Dissolve me into extasies,And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peacefull hermitage,The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every Star that Heav’n doth shew,And every Herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo somthing like Prophetic strain.These pleasures Melancholy give,And I with thee will choose to live.
HENCE vain deluding joyes,The brood of folly without father bred,How little you bested,Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;Dwell in som idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,Hail divinest Melancholy,Whose Saintly visage is too brightTo hit the Sense of human sight;And therfore to our weaker view,Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.Black, but such as in esteem,Prince Memnons sister might beseem,Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that stroveTo set her beauties praise aboveThe Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended,Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she (in Saturns raign,Such mixture was not held a stain)Oft in glimmering Bowres, and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida’s inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestick train,And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,Over thy decent shoulders drawn.Com, but keep thy wonted state,With eev’n step, and musing gate,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There held in holy passion still,Forget thy self to Marble, tillWith a sad Leaden downward cast,Thou fix them on the earth as fast.And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ring,Ay round about Joves Altar sing.And adde to these retirèd Leasure,That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,Him that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,The Cherub Contemplation,And the mute Silence hist along,’Less Philomel will daign a Song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of night,While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven Green,To behold the wandring Moon,Riding neer her highest noon,Like one that had bin led astrayThrough the Heav’ns wide pathles way;And oft, as if her head she bow’d,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off Curfeu soundOver som wide-water’d shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit.Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belmans drousie charm,To bless the dores from nightly harm:Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,Be seen in som high lonely Towr,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice great Hermes, or unsphearThe spirit of Plato to unfoldWhat Worlds, or what vast Regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those Dæmons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith Planet, or with Element.Som time let Gorgeous TragedyIn Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,Or the tale of Troy divine.Or what (though rare) of later age,Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæeus from his bowerOr bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek.Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canace to wife,That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,On which the Tartar King did ride;And if ought els, great Bards beside,In sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;Of Forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant then meets the ear.Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appeer,Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont,With the Attick Boy to hunt,But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,While rocking Winds are Piping loud,Or usher’d with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the russling Leaves,With minute drops from off the Eaves.And when the Sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me Goddes bringTo archèd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,Of Pine, or monumental Oake,Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke,Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.There in close covert by som Brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from Day’s garish eie,While the Bee with Honied thie,That at her flowry work doth sing,And the Waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;And let som strange mysterious dream,Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,Of lively portrature display’d,Softly on my eye-lids laid.And as I wake, sweet musick breathAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by som spirit to mortals good,Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.But let my due feet never fail,To walk the studious Cloysters pale,And love the high embowèd Roof,With antick Pillars massy proof,And storied Windows richly dight,Casting a dimm religious light.There let the pealing Organ blow,To the full voic’d Quire below,In Service high, and Anthems cleer,As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,Dissolve me into extasies,And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peacefull hermitage,The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every Star that Heav’n doth shew,And every Herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo somthing like Prophetic strain.These pleasures Melancholy give,And I with thee will choose to live.
HENCE vain deluding joyes,The brood of folly without father bred,How little you bested,Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;Dwell in som idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,Hail divinest Melancholy,Whose Saintly visage is too brightTo hit the Sense of human sight;And therfore to our weaker view,Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.Black, but such as in esteem,Prince Memnons sister might beseem,Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that stroveTo set her beauties praise aboveThe Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended,Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she (in Saturns raign,Such mixture was not held a stain)Oft in glimmering Bowres, and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida’s inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestick train,And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,Over thy decent shoulders drawn.Com, but keep thy wonted state,With eev’n step, and musing gate,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There held in holy passion still,Forget thy self to Marble, tillWith a sad Leaden downward cast,Thou fix them on the earth as fast.And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ring,Ay round about Joves Altar sing.And adde to these retirèd Leasure,That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,Him that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,The Cherub Contemplation,And the mute Silence hist along,’Less Philomel will daign a Song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of night,While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,Most musicall, most melancholy!Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven Green,To behold the wandring Moon,Riding neer her highest noon,Like one that had bin led astrayThrough the Heav’ns wide pathles way;And oft, as if her head she bow’d,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off Curfeu soundOver som wide-water’d shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removèd place will fit.Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belmans drousie charm,To bless the dores from nightly harm:Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,Be seen in som high lonely Towr,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice great Hermes, or unsphearThe spirit of Plato to unfoldWhat Worlds, or what vast Regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those Dæmons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith Planet, or with Element.Som time let Gorgeous TragedyIn Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,Or the tale of Troy divine.Or what (though rare) of later age,Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæeus from his bowerOr bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek.Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canace to wife,That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,On which the Tartar King did ride;And if ought els, great Bards beside,In sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;Of Forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant then meets the ear.Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appeer,Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont,With the Attick Boy to hunt,But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,While rocking Winds are Piping loud,Or usher’d with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the russling Leaves,With minute drops from off the Eaves.And when the Sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me Goddes bringTo archèd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,Of Pine, or monumental Oake,Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke,Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.There in close covert by som Brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from Day’s garish eie,While the Bee with Honied thie,That at her flowry work doth sing,And the Waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;And let som strange mysterious dream,Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,Of lively portrature display’d,Softly on my eye-lids laid.And as I wake, sweet musick breathAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by som spirit to mortals good,Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.But let my due feet never fail,To walk the studious Cloysters pale,And love the high embowèd Roof,With antick Pillars massy proof,And storied Windows richly dight,Casting a dimm religious light.There let the pealing Organ blow,To the full voic’d Quire below,In Service high, and Anthems cleer,As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,Dissolve me into extasies,And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peacefull hermitage,The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,Where I may sit and rightly spellOf every Star that Heav’n doth shew,And every Herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo somthing like Prophetic strain.These pleasures Melancholy give,And I with thee will choose to live.
312.
O’re the smooth enameld greenWhere no print of step hath been,Follow me as I sing,And touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching Elm Star-proof,Follow me,I will bring you where she sitsClad in splendor as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
O’re the smooth enameld greenWhere no print of step hath been,Follow me as I sing,And touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching Elm Star-proof,Follow me,I will bring you where she sitsClad in splendor as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
O’re the smooth enameld greenWhere no print of step hath been,Follow me as I sing,And touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching Elm Star-proof,Follow me,I will bring you where she sitsClad in splendor as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
313.
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,And the gilded Car of Day,His glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream,And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky Pole,Pacing toward the other goleOf his Chamber in the East.Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,Midnight shout, and revelry,Tipsie dance, and Jollity.Braid your Locks with rosie TwineDropping odours, dropping Wine.Rigor now is gon to bed,And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sowre Severity,With their grave Saws in slumber ly.We that are of purer fireImitate the Starry Quire,Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,Lead in swift round the Months and Years.The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny droveNow to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:What hath night to do with sleep?Night hath better sweets to prove,Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love....Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,In a light fantastick round.
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,And the gilded Car of Day,His glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream,And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky Pole,Pacing toward the other goleOf his Chamber in the East.Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,Midnight shout, and revelry,Tipsie dance, and Jollity.Braid your Locks with rosie TwineDropping odours, dropping Wine.Rigor now is gon to bed,And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sowre Severity,With their grave Saws in slumber ly.We that are of purer fireImitate the Starry Quire,Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,Lead in swift round the Months and Years.The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny droveNow to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:What hath night to do with sleep?Night hath better sweets to prove,Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love....Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,In a light fantastick round.
THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold,Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,And the gilded Car of Day,His glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream,And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky Pole,Pacing toward the other goleOf his Chamber in the East.Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,Midnight shout, and revelry,Tipsie dance, and Jollity.Braid your Locks with rosie TwineDropping odours, dropping Wine.Rigor now is gon to bed,And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sowre Severity,With their grave Saws in slumber ly.We that are of purer fireImitate the Starry Quire,Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,Lead in swift round the Months and Years.The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny droveNow to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:What hath night to do with sleep?Night hath better sweets to prove,Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love....Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,In a light fantastick round.
314.
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander’s margent green,And in the violet imbroider’d valeWhere the love-lorn NightingaleNightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.Canst thou not tell me of a gentle PairThat likest thy Narcissus are?O if thou haveHid them in som flowry Cave,Tell me but whereSweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!So maist thou be translated to the skies,And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies?
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander’s margent green,And in the violet imbroider’d valeWhere the love-lorn NightingaleNightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.Canst thou not tell me of a gentle PairThat likest thy Narcissus are?O if thou haveHid them in som flowry Cave,Tell me but whereSweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!So maist thou be translated to the skies,And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies?
SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander’s margent green,And in the violet imbroider’d valeWhere the love-lorn NightingaleNightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.Canst thou not tell me of a gentle PairThat likest thy Narcissus are?O if thou haveHid them in som flowry Cave,Tell me but whereSweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!So maist thou be translated to the skies,And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies?
315.
The Spirit sings:
SABRINA fairListen where thou art sittingUnder the glassie, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of Lillies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,Listen for dear honour’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!Listen and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus,By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,And Tethys grave majestick pace,By hoary Nereus wrincled look,And the Carpathian wisards hook,By scaly Tritons winding shell,And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,By Leucothea’s lovely hands,And her son that rules the strands,By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet,And the Songs of Sirens sweet,By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,And fair Ligea’s golden comb,Wherwith she sits on diamond rocksSleeking her soft alluring locks,By all the Nymphs that nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie headFrom thy coral-pav’n bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen and save!
SABRINA fairListen where thou art sittingUnder the glassie, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of Lillies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,Listen for dear honour’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!Listen and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus,By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,And Tethys grave majestick pace,By hoary Nereus wrincled look,And the Carpathian wisards hook,By scaly Tritons winding shell,And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,By Leucothea’s lovely hands,And her son that rules the strands,By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet,And the Songs of Sirens sweet,By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,And fair Ligea’s golden comb,Wherwith she sits on diamond rocksSleeking her soft alluring locks,By all the Nymphs that nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie headFrom thy coral-pav’n bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen and save!
SABRINA fairListen where thou art sittingUnder the glassie, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of Lillies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,Listen for dear honour’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus,By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,And Tethys grave majestick pace,By hoary Nereus wrincled look,And the Carpathian wisards hook,By scaly Tritons winding shell,And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,By Leucothea’s lovely hands,And her son that rules the strands,By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet,And the Songs of Sirens sweet,By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,And fair Ligea’s golden comb,Wherwith she sits on diamond rocksSleeking her soft alluring locks,By all the Nymphs that nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance,Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie headFrom thy coral-pav’n bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave,Till thou our summons answered have.Listen and save!
Sabrina replies:
BY the rushy-fringèd bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stayes,Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheenOf Turkis blew, and Emrauld greenThat in the channell strayes,Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO’re the Cowslips Velvet head,That bends not as I tread,Gentle swain at thy requestI am here.
BY the rushy-fringèd bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stayes,Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheenOf Turkis blew, and Emrauld greenThat in the channell strayes,Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO’re the Cowslips Velvet head,That bends not as I tread,Gentle swain at thy requestI am here.
BY the rushy-fringèd bank,Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,My sliding Chariot stayes,Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheenOf Turkis blew, and Emrauld greenThat in the channell strayes,Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my printless feetO’re the Cowslips Velvet head,That bends not as I tread,Gentle swain at thy requestI am here.
316.
TO the Ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lyWhere day never shuts his eye,Up in the broad fields of the sky:There I suck the liquid ayrAll amidst the Gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree:Along the crispèd shades and bowresRevels the spruce and jocond Spring,The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres,Thither all their bounties bring,That there eternal Summer dwels,And West winds, with musky wingAbout the cedar’n alleys flingNard, and Cassia’s balmy smels.Iris there with humid bow,Waters the odorous banks that blowFlowers of more mingled hewThan her purfl’d scarf can shew,And drenches with Elysian dew(List mortals, if your ears be true)Beds of Hyacinth, and rosesWhere young Adonis oft reposes,Waxing well of his deep woundIn slumber soft, and on the groundSadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen;But far above in spangled sheenCelestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t,Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’tAfter her wandring labours long,Till free consent the gods amongMake her his eternal Bride,And from her fair unspotted sideTwo blissful twins are to be born,Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.But now my task is smoothly don,I can fly, or I can runQuickly to the green earths end,Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend,And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the Moon.Mortals that would follow me,Love vertue, she alone is free.She can teach ye how to climeHigher then the Spheary chime;Or if Vertue feeble were,Heav’n it self would stoop to her.
TO the Ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lyWhere day never shuts his eye,Up in the broad fields of the sky:There I suck the liquid ayrAll amidst the Gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree:Along the crispèd shades and bowresRevels the spruce and jocond Spring,The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres,Thither all their bounties bring,That there eternal Summer dwels,And West winds, with musky wingAbout the cedar’n alleys flingNard, and Cassia’s balmy smels.Iris there with humid bow,Waters the odorous banks that blowFlowers of more mingled hewThan her purfl’d scarf can shew,And drenches with Elysian dew(List mortals, if your ears be true)Beds of Hyacinth, and rosesWhere young Adonis oft reposes,Waxing well of his deep woundIn slumber soft, and on the groundSadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen;But far above in spangled sheenCelestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t,Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’tAfter her wandring labours long,Till free consent the gods amongMake her his eternal Bride,And from her fair unspotted sideTwo blissful twins are to be born,Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.But now my task is smoothly don,I can fly, or I can runQuickly to the green earths end,Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend,And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the Moon.Mortals that would follow me,Love vertue, she alone is free.She can teach ye how to climeHigher then the Spheary chime;Or if Vertue feeble were,Heav’n it self would stoop to her.
TO the Ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lyWhere day never shuts his eye,Up in the broad fields of the sky:There I suck the liquid ayrAll amidst the Gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree:Along the crispèd shades and bowresRevels the spruce and jocond Spring,The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres,Thither all their bounties bring,That there eternal Summer dwels,And West winds, with musky wingAbout the cedar’n alleys flingNard, and Cassia’s balmy smels.Iris there with humid bow,Waters the odorous banks that blowFlowers of more mingled hewThan her purfl’d scarf can shew,And drenches with Elysian dew(List mortals, if your ears be true)Beds of Hyacinth, and rosesWhere young Adonis oft reposes,Waxing well of his deep woundIn slumber soft, and on the groundSadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen;But far above in spangled sheenCelestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t,Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’tAfter her wandring labours long,Till free consent the gods amongMake her his eternal Bride,And from her fair unspotted sideTwo blissful twins are to be born,Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.But now my task is smoothly don,I can fly, or I can runQuickly to the green earths end,Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend,And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the Moon.Mortals that would follow me,Love vertue, she alone is free.She can teach ye how to climeHigher then the Spheary chime;Or if Vertue feeble were,Heav’n it self would stoop to her.
317.
A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once moreYe Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,And with forc’d 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 primeYoung Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not flote upon his watry bearUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of som melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,So may som gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin’d Urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’dUnder the opening eye-lids of the morn,We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, brightToward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute;Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,From the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damætas lov’d to hear our songBut O the heavy change, now thou art gon,Now thou art gon, and never must return!Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,And all their echoes mourn.The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.As killing as the Canker to the Rose,Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,When first the White thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deepClos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,The Muse her self, for her inchanting sonWhom Universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His goary visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,Were it not better don 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 spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of Noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears,And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,And perfet witnes 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 honour’d floud,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my Oate proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat 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 gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd Promontory,They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d.It was that fatall and perfidious BarkBuilt in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake,Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake,How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain,Anow of such as for their bellies sake,Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reck’ning make,Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to holdA Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the leastThat to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim Woolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing sed,But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,And call the Vales, and bid them hither castTheir Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,That on the green terf suck the honied showres,And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,The glowing Violet.The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine.With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the Laureat Herse 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 SeasWash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded MountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walk’d the wavesWhere other groves, and other streams along,With Nectar pure his oozy Lock’s he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet SocietiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,And now was dropt into the Western bay;At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once moreYe Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,And with forc’d 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 primeYoung Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not flote upon his watry bearUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of som melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,So may som gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin’d Urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’dUnder the opening eye-lids of the morn,We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, brightToward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute;Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,From the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damætas lov’d to hear our songBut O the heavy change, now thou art gon,Now thou art gon, and never must return!Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,And all their echoes mourn.The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.As killing as the Canker to the Rose,Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,When first the White thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deepClos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,The Muse her self, for her inchanting sonWhom Universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His goary visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,Were it not better don 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 spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of Noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears,And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,And perfet witnes 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 honour’d floud,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my Oate proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat 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 gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd Promontory,They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d.It was that fatall and perfidious BarkBuilt in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake,Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake,How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain,Anow of such as for their bellies sake,Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reck’ning make,Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to holdA Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the leastThat to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim Woolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing sed,But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,And call the Vales, and bid them hither castTheir Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,That on the green terf suck the honied showres,And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,The glowing Violet.The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine.With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the Laureat Herse 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 SeasWash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded MountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walk’d the wavesWhere other groves, and other streams along,With Nectar pure his oozy Lock’s he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet SocietiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,And now was dropt into the Western bay;At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once moreYe Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,And with forc’d 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 primeYoung Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not flote upon his watry bearUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of som melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,So may som gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin’d Urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’dUnder the opening eye-lids of the morn,We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, brightToward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute;Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,From the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damætas lov’d to hear our songBut O the heavy change, now thou art gon,Now thou art gon, and never must return!Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,And all their echoes mourn.The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.As killing as the Canker to the Rose,Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,When first the White thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deepClos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,The Muse her self, for her inchanting sonWhom Universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His goary visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,Were it not better don 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 spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of Noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears,And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,And perfet witnes 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 honour’d floud,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my Oate proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the SeaThat 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 gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd Promontory,They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d.It was that fatall and perfidious BarkBuilt in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The Pilot of the Galilean lake,Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake,How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain,Anow of such as for their bellies sake,Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reck’ning make,Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to holdA Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the leastThat to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim Woolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing sed,But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,And call the Vales, and bid them hither castTheir Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,That on the green terf suck the honied showres,And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,The glowing Violet.The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine.With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the Laureat Herse 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 SeasWash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded MountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of him that walk’d the wavesWhere other groves, and other streams along,With Nectar pure his oozy Lock’s he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet SocietiesThat sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,And now was dropt into the Western bay;At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
317*.