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J

LYCIDA S.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his paffage form Chefer on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

Et once more, Oye Laurels, and once more

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Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear,
I come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compells me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat louder sweep the ftring,

H

Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,
So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favour my deftin'd Urn.
And as he paffes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock; by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright,
Toward Heav'ns defcent had flop'd his weftering
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, [wheel.
Temper'd to th' Qaten Flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad found would not be abfent long,
And old Damatas lov'd to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defart Caves
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazel Copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to their soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,

Or Taint-worm to the weaning Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,

When fift the White Thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the fteep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, ly,
Nor on the haggy top of Mona high,

Not 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 her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe her felf, 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 Swift Hebrus to the Lesbian hore.
Alas! What boots, it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better done as others ufe,
To fport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neara's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raife,
(That last infinity 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 fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred hearsy
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praise,
Phabus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling cars;

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the gliftering foil

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and fpreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witness of all-judging Jove';
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,

And liftens to the Herald of the Sea

That came in Neptune's plea,

He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon Winds
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle Swain?
And question'd every guft of rugged wings
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 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' 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 sedge,
nwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ak; who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?

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