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XV.

Happy, thrice happy days in silver age!

When generous plants advanc'd their lofty crest ; When honour stoop'd to be learn'd wisdom's page; When baser weeds starv'd in their frozen nest; When th' highest flying muse still higher climbs ; And virtue's rise, keeps down all rising crimes : Happy, thrice happy age! happy, thrice happy times! XVI.

But wretched we, to whom these iron days,
Hard days! afford no matter, nor reward:

Sings Maro? Men deride high Maro's lays,

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Their hearts with steel, with lead their sense is barr'd. Sings Linus, or his father*, as he uses?

Our Midas' ears their well tun'd verse refuses : Ah what cares he for arts! he mocks at sacred muses.

XVII.

But if fond Bavius vent his clouted song;

Or Mævius chant his thoughts in brothel charm; The witless vulgar, in a num'rous throng,

Like summer-flies about their dunghill swarm :

They sneer, they grin :- Like to his like will move.”
Yet never let them greater mischief prove

Than this, Who hates not one, may he the other love!
XVIII.

Witness our Colint; whom tho' all the graces,
And all the muses nurs'd; whose well taught song,
Parnassus' self, and Glorian embraces,

And all the learn'd, and all the shepherd throng;
Yet all his hopes were cross'd, all suits denied ;
Discourag'd, scorn'd, his writings vilified:
Distrest alas! he liv'd; distrest alas! he died.
+ Spenser.

* Apollo.

XIX.

And had not that great Hart, whose honour'd head
Now lies full low, pitied thy woeful plight;
There had'st thou lain unwept, unburied,

Unbless'd, nor grac'd with any common rite :

Yet shalt thou live when thy great foe shall sink

;

Beneath his mountain tomb, whose fame shall stink And time his blacker name shall blur with blackest ink.

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O let th' Iambic muse revenge that wrong,

Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead:

Let thy abused honour cry as long

As there are quills to write, or eyes to read:

On his rank name let thine own voice be turn'd,

" 0 may that man that hath the muses scorn'd,

“Alive or dead, be never of a muse adorn'd *!” XXI.

Oft therefore have I chid my tender muse;

Oft
my chill breast beats off her flutt'ring wing:
Yet when new spring her gentle rays infuse,
All storms are laid, again I rise and sing :

At length soft fires dispers'd in every vein,
Yield open passage to the thronging train,

And swelling number's tide rolls like the surging main,
XXII.

So where fair Thames, and crooked Isis' son,

Pays tribute to his king,—the mantling stream, Encounter'd by the tide now rushing on

With equal force, of's way doth doubtful seem;

At length the full-grown sea, and water's king Chides the bold waves with hollow murmuring: Back fly the streams to shroud them in their mother-spring. * A citation from Spenser's Poem "The Ruines of Time ;"...and supposed to allude to Cecil, Lord Burleigh.

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Yet thou harmonious muse, why should'st thou droop,

That every vulgar ear thy music scorns?

Nor can they rise, nor thou so low canst stoop;
No seed of heav'n takes root in mud or thorns.

When owls or crows, imping their flaggy wing

With thy stol'n plumes, their notes thro' th' air would fling;

Oh shame! they howl and croak, whilst fond they strain to sing.
XXIV.

Enough for thee in heav'n to build thy nest;
Far be dull thoughts of winning earthly praise;
Enough, if kings enthrone thee in their breast,
And crown their golden crowns with higher bays:
Enough that those who wear the crown of kings,
Great Israel's princes! strike thy sweetest strings :
Heaven's dove when high'st he flies, flies with thy heav'nly
wings.

XXV.

Let others trust the seas, dare death and hell,

Search either Ind, vaunt of their scars and wounds:

Let others their dear breath, nay, silence, sell

To fools; and swol'n, not rich, stretch out their bounds By spoiling those that live, and wronging dead;

That they may drink in pearl, and couch their head In soft, but sleepless down; in rich, but restless bed: XXVI.

O let them in their gold quaff dropsies down!

O let them surfeits feast in silver bright! Whilst sugar hires the taste the brain to drown,

And bribes of sauce corrupt false appetite,

Its master's rest, health, heart, life, soul, to sell: Thus plenty, fulness, sickness, ring their knell, Death weds and beds them; first in grave, and then in hell.

XXVII.

But ah! let me under some Kentish hill,

Near rolling Medway 'mongst my shepherd peers,
With fearless merry-make, and piping still,
Securely pass my few and slow-pac'd years:
While yet the great Augustus* of our nation,
Shuts up old Janus in this long cessation,
Strength'ning our pleasing ease, and gives us

vacation.

sure

XXVIII.

There may I, master of a little flock,

Feed my poor lambs, and often change their fare,
My lovely mate shall tend my sparing stock,
And nurse my little ones with pleasing care;

Whose love and look, shall speak their father plain :
Health be my feast, heaven hope, content my gain;
So in my little house, my lesser heart shall reign.
XXIX.

The beech shall yield a cool safe canopy,

While down I sit, and chant to th' echoing wood:
Ah, singing might I live, and singing die!
So by fair Thames, or silver Medway's flood,

The dying swan, when years her temples pierce,
In music's strains breathes out her life and verse,
And chanting her own dirge, rides on her wat'ry hearse.
XXX.

What need I then to seek a patron out;

Or beg a favour from a mistress' eye, To fence my song against the vulgar rout; Or shine upon me with her Gemini?

What care I, if they praise my slender song?

Or heed I, if they do me right or wrong?

A shepherd's bliss nor stands nor falls with every tongue,

-* James I.

XXXI.

GREAT PRINCE of shepherds! than thy heavens more high, Low as our earth, here serving, ruling there;

Who taught'st our death to live, thy life to die;

Who, when we broke thy bonds, our bonds wouldst bear; Who reignedst in thy Heaven, yet felt'st our Hell; Who (God) bought'st man, whom man (tho'God's) did sell, Who in our flesh, our graves, and worse, our hearts wouldst

dwell:

XXXII.

GREAT PRINCE of shepherds! thou who late didst deign
To lodge thyself within this wretched breast;
Most wretched breast, such guest to entertain,
Yet oh most happy lodge in such a guest!

Thou First and Last, inspire thy sacred skill;
Guide thou my hand, grace thou my artless quill
So shall I first begin, so last shall end thy will.

XXXIII.

Hark then, ah, hark! ye gentle shepherd crew;

An ISLE I fain would sing, an ISLAND fair;

A place too seldom view'd, yet still in view;
Near as ourselves, yet farthest from our care;
Which we by leaving find, by seeking lost;
A foreign home; a strange, tho' native coast;
Most obvious to all, yet most unknown to most.
XXXIV.

Coeval with the world in her nativity;

Which tho' it now hath passed thro' many ages, And still retains a natural proclivity

To ruin, compass'd with a thousand rages

Of foe-men's spite, which still this ISLAND tosses ; Yet ever grows more prosp'rous by her crosses, By with'ring, springing fresh, and rich by often losses.

C

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