ページの画像
PDF
ePub

.80

I will assay, her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,
Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

[blocks in formation]

NYMPHS and Shepherds, dance no more

By sandy Ladon's lilied banks;

On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar,

Trip no more in twilight ranks; Though Erymanth your loss deplore,

A better soil shall give ye thanks.

From the stony Manalus

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

XVI.

LYCIDAS.

In this monody the author bewails a learned Friend, un fortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637, and by occasion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.

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 fore'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 wat❜ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

5

10

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,

15

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and eoy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;

20

And, as he passes, turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were rurst upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard

25

19. So may some gentle Muse".....Mave in the mas culine gender here means Poet.

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,

30

Tow'ard Heav'n's descent had slop'd his west'ring

wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to th' oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damotas Jov'd to hear our song.

35

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 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 flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;

45

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

51

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!

55

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 goary 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?

60

65

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 spi'rit 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 th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glist'ring foil

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

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd 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

70

75

80

85

That came in Neptune's plea;

90

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,

[blocks in formation]

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

100

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd 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,

89. "The herald of the sea"... Tritan.

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge

105

Like to that sanguine flow'r inscrib'd with woe. "Ah! who hath rett (quoth he) my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go.

The pilot of the Galilean lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain.)

110

He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake

115

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to
hold

125

130

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Ye Valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

135

130. "Two-handed engine".....the axe of reformation.

« 前へ次へ »