For the rich help of books he always took, As if wise Nature had made that her book. So many virtues join'd in him, as we These did Religion, queen of virtues! sway; Just like the first and highest sphere, With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always lived, as other saints do die. Which still in water sets at night, Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good, Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell; Where life, spirit, pleasure always used to dwell. There 'mong the bless'd thou dost for ever shine, And wheresoe'er thou cast'st thy view, Upon that white and radiant crew, Seest not a soul clothed with more light than thine. And, if the glorious saints cease not to know There, whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse, Our dull and earthly poesy, Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse. COWLEY. MUSÆUS*. A Monody, to the Memory of Mr. Pope. IN IMITATION OF MILTON'S LYCIDAS. SORROWING I catch the reed, and call the Muse; Since rapt Musæus tuned his parting strain : Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale, Mr. Pope died in the year 1744; this poem was then written, and published first in the year 1747. Yet ah! ye are not dead, Celestial Maids; Nor is it meet ye fly these pensive glades, Nor Thespia's grove; till with harmonious teen [join And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall Our sad society, and passing mourn, The tears fast trickling o'er his silver urn. His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove, Say first, Sicilian Muse, For, with thy sisters thou didst weeping stand In silent circle at the solemn scene, [wand, When Death approach'd and waved his ebon Say how each laurel droop'd its withering green? How, in yon grot, each silver trickling spring And sunk his awful head, While vocal shadows pleasing dreams prolong; For so, his sickening spirits to release, They pour'd the balm of visionary peace. First sent from Cam's fair banks, like palmer old, Came Tityrus slow, with head all silver'd o'er, And thus in antique guise short talk did hold: For mich gode wirkè to me don and past. Whannè shallow brook yrenneth hobling on, * Tityrus, &c.] i. e. Chaucer, a name frequently given him by Spenser. See Shep. Cal. Ec. 2, 6, 12, and elsewhere. And in thy verse entunist so fetisely, That men sayen I make trewe melody, And speaken every dele to myne honoure. He ceased his homely rhyme; When Colin Clout*, Eliza's shepherd swain, +Ah! luckless swain, alas! how art thou lorn, Who once like me couldst frame thy pipe to play Shepherd's devise, and chear the lingering morn: Ne bush, ne breere, but learnt thy roundelay. Ah plight too sore such worth to equal right! Ah worth too high to meet such piteous plight! "But I nought strive, poor Colin, to compare My Hobbin's or my Thenot's rustic skill To thy deft swains', whose dapper ditties rare Surpass aught else of quaintest shepherd's quill. E'en Roman Tityrus, that peerless wight, Mote yield to thee for dainties of delight. 'Eke when in Fable's flowery paths you stray'd, Masking in cunning feints Truth's splendent face; Ne Sylph, ne Sylphid, but due tendance paid, To shield Belinda's lock from felon base, Colin Clout,] i. e. Spenser, which name he gives himself throughout his works. + The two first stanzas of this speech, as they relate to Pastoral, are written in the measure which Spenser uses in the first eclogue of the Shepherd's Calendar: the rest, where he speaks of fable, are in the stanza of the Faery Queene. |