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Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd 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 wisard-tream:

55 Ay me! I fondly dream. Had


been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself, that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her inchanting son,
Whom 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 incessant care To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, And ftri&tly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the fpur, that the clear spi'rit doth raise 70 (That last 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 sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, 75 And flits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phæbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears ; Fame is no plant, that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glitt'ring foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80 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 Heav'n expect thy meed.

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd flood, 85
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd 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;

90 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 winds, That blows from off each beaked promontory ; They knew not of his story,

95 And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon ftray'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 curses dark, That-sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Cainus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 Like to that sanguin flow'r inscrib'd with woe. Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my deareft pledge ? Lait came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy keys 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, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?

115 Of other care they little reck’ning make,

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Than how to scramble at the fearers feast,
And shove away the worthy-bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the least, 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ;
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and flalhy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ;
The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed, 123
But fwoll'n 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 engin at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Return Alpheus, the dread voice is paft,
That shrunk thy streams ; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flourets of a thousand hues.

135 Ye Valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart ftar sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint-enameld eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose, that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jesfamine, The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet,

145 The musk-rose, and the well-attir’d woodbine, With cow lips wan, that hang the pensive head, And every flow's, that fad embroidery wears : Bid amarantus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,


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To Itrow the laureat-herse, where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilft thee the shores and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurld,

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifitft the bottom of the monstrous world ;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,

Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, Oye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165
For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the

So finks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170
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 waves,
Where other groves and other streams along
With Nectar

his oozy locks he laves,

And hears th’ unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above
In folemn troops and sweet societies,
That fing, and singing in their glory move, 180
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the Ahore,


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In thy large recompense, and thalt be good
To all, that wander in that perilous flood,

Thus fang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with fandals

gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had ftretch'd out all the hills, 190 And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.


On the new forcers of conscience under the Long



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have thrown off your Prelate Lord, And with stiff vows renounc'd his Liturgy, To feise the widow'd whore Plurality

From them, whose fin ye envied, not abhorr’d,
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword

To force our consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic hierarchy +

Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford I?
Men whose life, learning, faith and pure intent

Would have been held in high esteem with Paul,


* This poem

suppos'd to have been made, when the Directory was established, and disputes ran high between the Presbyterians and Independents in 1645, the latter pleading for a toleration, and the former against it.

+ In the Presbyterian form of government there are congregational, classical, provincial, and national aflemblies.

| It is not known who is meant by A. S. Mr. Samuel Rotherford was Professor of Divinity at St Andrew's, and one of the Scotch commissioners to the Westminster assembly,

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