As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
of fo much fame in heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oate proceeds,
And liftens to the herald of the fea
That came in Neptune's plea,
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon 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,
And fage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'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 funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that fanguine flower 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 maffy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)
He shook his miter'd locks, and stern befpake; How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow 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 shearer's 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 elfe the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? what need they? they are fped And when they lift, their lean and flashy fongs Grate on their ferannel 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: Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing fed, But that two-handed engine 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 shades 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 showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine, The white pink, and the pansie freakt with jeat,
The musk rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine, With cowflips wan that hang the pensive head, And ev'ry flower that fad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To ftrew the laureat herfe where Lycid lies, For fo to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmize. Ah me! whilft thee the fhores, and founding feas Wash far away, where-e'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 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, woful fhepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your forrow, is not dead; Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, 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, 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 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, In thy large recompenfe, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth swain to th' okes and rills, While the still morn went out with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the fun had stretch'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.
HENCE loathed melancholy,
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out fome uncouth cell,
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night raven fings;
There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrofyne, And by men, heart-easing mirth Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two fifter graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as fome fages fing) The frolick wind that breaths the spring, Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown rofes washt in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buckfom, blithe, and debonnair. Hafte thee nymph, and bring with thee Jeft and youthful jollity,
Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed fmiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple fleek;
Sport that wrinkled care derides, And laughter holding both his fides. Come, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee- The mountain nymph, fweet liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
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