Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfeless 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 fhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet,where Deva spreads her wifard-stream:
Ay me! I fondly dream.
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Mufe herself, that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe herself for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,
When by the rout,that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore?
Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To fport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the fpur, that the clear fpi'rit doth raise
(That laft 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 fhears,
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praife,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant, that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and fpreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thou honor'd flood,
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And liftens to the herald of the fea,
That came in Neptune's plea;
He afk'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 ftory,
And fage Hippotades their anfwer brings,
That not a blait was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fanguin flow'r infcrib'd with woe.
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Laft came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)
He shook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young fwain,
Enow of fuch, as for their bellies' fake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to fcramble at the shearers feast,
And fhove away the worthy-bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that fcarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the leaft, 120 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs;
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they lift, their lean and flashy fongs
Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched ftraw;
The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoll'n with wind and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing faid,
But that two-handed engin at the door
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That fhrunk thy ftreams; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells and flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye Valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the fwart ftar sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint-enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrofe, that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The mufk-rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan, that hang the penfive head,
And every flow'r, that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty fhed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrow the laureat-herfe, where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilft thee the fhores and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft 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 vifion of the guarded mount
Looks tow'ard Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye 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 watry floor;
So finks the day-ftar 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 funk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him, that walk'd the waves,
Where other groves and other streams along
With Nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears th' unexpreffive nuptial fong,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the faints above
In folemn troops and fweet focieties,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
L 3
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all,that wander in that perilous flood,
Thus fang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,
While the ftill morn went out with fandals gray,
He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the fun had ftretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
On the new forcers of confcience under the Long
Ecaufe I have thrown off
you
And with stiff vows renounc'd his Liturgy,
To feife the widow'd whore Plurality
From them, whofe fin ye envied, not abhorr'd,
Dare ye for this adjure the civil fword
To force our confciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a claffic hierarchy +
Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford †? Men whofe life, learning, faith and pure intent Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, 10
*This poem is fuppos'd to have been made, when the Directory was established, and difputes ran high between the Prefbyterians and Independents in 1645, the latter pleading for a toleration, and the former against it.
In the Prefbyterian form of government there are congregational, claffical, provincial, and national affemblies.
It is not known who is meant by A. S. Mr. Samuel Rotherford was Profeffor of Divinity at St Andrew's, and one of the Scotch commiffioners to the Weftminster affembly.
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