and windows finely carved and decorated, through whose coloured panes a dim light suitable to the holy place steals in. There let me listen to the service chanted, and anthem sung by the choir to the accompaniment of the organ, till the divine melody transports my soul and brings it into close communion with heaven.

And when at last age creeps on, let me become a hermit, and sit clad in coarse garb in my cell, and study the motions of the stars and the nature of the wild plants that grow around; till by long habit of observation I learn to forecast events and become almost a prophet.

Give me these pleasures, Melancholy, and then I will live with thee for ever.

ANALYSIS.

Alas! poor Lycidas, the peerless young poet is dead, and I must not leave him in his watery grave without a tear, or without an elegy; for we were companions in the studies of Cambridge (which now deplores his loss), and followed the same pursuits. But what a sad change his death has caused! Why did not the Nymphs save him? Alas! they could not. I would have renounced poetry and fame when I heard of his fate, had not Phoebus stilled my repinings. There was no wind on the waves when he went down. He could ill be spared; his life was more precious than that of many who seek from base motives the profession which he would have adorned! Let every flower be scattered on his grave. Alas! I dream; for his grave is in the ocean or on the

strand.

But his soul has risen, and he is now enjoying the blessed society of the saints above; so let us dry our eyes and weep no more.

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,

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 sad occasion dear,
Compels 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 sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watʼry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string :
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse

5

ΙΟ

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With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;
And as he passes turn,

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And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.

* Milton's own title of the poem was "Lycidas. In this monody the author bewails a learned friend unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the ruine of our corrupted Clergie then in their height."

Again, ye laurels, and ye brown myrtles, and thou evergreen ivy, I come to gather your berries before they are ripe, and to tear away with ruthless hands your leaves before the proper time for them to fall: but I am compelled by sad necessity thus prematurely to disturb you, because young Lycidas has died before his prime, and we shall not look upon his like again. Who would deny him the tribute of poetry?— poetry which he himself knew how to compose so well. He must not be left in the waves, to be tossed about by the winds, without having a tearful dirge composed in his honour.

Come then, ye Muses, who dwell by the fount that rises at the foot of the habitation of Jove, and begin your loud and plaintive lay: I will take no excuse from you and no refusal. So may some kind poet sing strains of good omen at my grave, and turn towards my tomb as he passes by, and say 'Peace be unto it.' For Lycidas and I received our education together, studied the same subjects, applied ourselves to work

Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove afield; and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

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Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning, bright,

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Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to th' oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long,

And old Damætas 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 desert caves,

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With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 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 the gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear

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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 steep,

Where your old bards, the famous Druids lie,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: 55 Ay me, I fondly dream!

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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
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,

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in company before sunrise, laboured together at noon, and often too from the beginning of evening till the dead of night, composing side by side our simple rustic verses-verses which charmed our seniors, and brought many listeners around us.

But what a change, since now thou art gone from me for ever! The shepherds weep for thee, the woods mourn for thee, and so do the caves grown over with wild thyme and trailing vines, and their echoes swell the sounds of lamentation for the loss. No more shall thy music resound through the copses, and make the leaves dance in unison with its strains. Thy loss, Lycidas, is as fatal to the shepherds as the worm is to the rose, as the taint-worm to the flocks, or as frost to the early blossoming flowers.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when your Lycidas was drowned, that ye did not save him? You were not on the height where the Druids lie buried, nor on the rugged steep of Anglesea, nor beside the banks of the sacred Dee. Alas! I am but dreaming: for what could you have done if you had been there? What could Calliope herself do for her own son Orpheus (for whom all the world wept and mourned) when the brutal mob with savage shrieks hurled his blood-stained head into the Hebrus to float across to the Lesbian shore ? Alas! when things are so, what is to be gained by devoting oneself to pastoral pursuits and to the ungrateful muse? Surely it were better to do as others do, and