He feels from Juda's land Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heav'ns youngest teemèd star, Hath fixt her polisht car, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. Together both, ere the high lawns ap- Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose, at ev'ning, bright Toward heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp Temper'd to th'oaten flute; attending. And all about the courtly stable, LYCIDAS A LAMENT FOR A FRIEND DROWNED IN YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more And with forc'd fingers rude, Rough satyrs danc'd, and fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows, and the hazle copses green, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft And strictly meditate the thankles Muse: (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorrèd shears, And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: And listens to the Herald of the Sea He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beakèd promontory, They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The ayr was calm, and on the level brine, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, Two massy keyes he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake: How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els That to the faithfull herdmans art belongs! Let our frail thoughts dally with false 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 swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, 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 bels, and flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, The white pink, and the pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, For so to interpose a little ease, surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye dolphins, waft the haples youth. Weep no more, woful shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves Where other groves, and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'okes and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his dorick lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blew: To morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. ON HIS BLINDNESS WHEN I consider how my light is spent, E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his state Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN AVENGE, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. L'ALLEGRO HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and lowbrowed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Forget not: In Thy book record their Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, groans Nods, and Becks, and wreathèd Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And in thy right hand lead with thee Whilst the landskip round it measures: The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Basks at the fire his hairy strength, Where throngs of knights and barons bold. |