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Like to that fanguin flow'r infcrib'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 keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)


He shook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
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 scramble at the shearers 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 lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched ftraw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not sed,
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 past,
That shrunk 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 gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck 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 jessamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flow'r that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,

with tears,

And daffadillies fill their cups
To ftrow the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.



Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and founding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 155
Whether beyond the ftormy 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 toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful Shepherds, weep no more, 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 the unexpreffive nuptial song,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops, and sweet societies,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and shalt 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 sandals 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, 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.


The Fifth ODE of Horace, Lib. I.

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rofa, rendred almoft word for word without rime, according to the Latin meafure, as near as the language will permit.

HAT flender youth bedew'd with liquid odors


Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrah? for whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he

On faith and changed Gods complain, and feas
Rough with black winds and ftorms

Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,

Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful. Hapless they


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To whom thou untry'd feem'ft fair. Me in my vow'd

Picture the facred wall declares t'have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the ftern God of fea.



Horatius ex Pyrrhae illecebris tanquam è naufragio enataverat, cujus amore irretitos, affirmat effe miferos.


UIS multa gracilis te puer in rosa

Perfufus liquidis urget odoribus,

Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam

Simplex munditiis? heu quoties fidem
Mutatofque deos flebit, et afpera
Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur infolens!

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,

Qui femper vacuam femper amabilem
Sperat, nefcius auræ

Fallacis. Miferi quibus

Intentata nites. Me tabula facer

Votiva paries indicat uvida

Sufpendiffe potenti

Veftimenta maris Deo.





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