But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return!

Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel-copses green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved 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 wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream!

Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son,

Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata viden

tur

Rura-relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs ! Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum, Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci, Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo. Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo Molles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen. Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos; Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæ Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris: Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.

Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele profundum Delicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit? Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis Quos veteres, Druidæ, vates, illustria servant Nomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ, Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis. Væ mihi delusos exercent somnia sensus : Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret? Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei, Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexit

Whom universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory 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 slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly 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 spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn 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 the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise."
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,
Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,
Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore,
Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?

Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque
Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,
Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam ?
Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,
(Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neæram
Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?
Scilicet ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus error
Illa animi majoris, uti calcaribus urget
Spernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis.
Quanquam-exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem;
Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma :-
Cæca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys,
Quæ resecet tenui hærentem subtemine vitam.
"At Famam non illa," refert, tangitque trementes
Phoebus Apollo aures. "Fama haud, vulgaris ad instar
Floris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitores
Queis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit.
Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere late

Puri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas,

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.”

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned 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;

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,

What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings,
That blows from off each beaked promontory:

They knew not of his story,

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,

The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark

Built in the eclipse, and rigged 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 edge,