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Hide me from day's garish eye,

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While the bee with honied thigh,

That at her flowery work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;
And let some strange myfterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery ftream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfter's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,

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In the center of her light.

Might fhe the wife Latona be,
Or the towered Cybele,
Mother of a hundred Gods;

150 Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparallel'd?

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As they come forward, the GENIU3 of the Wood ap pears, and, turning toward them, fpeaks. GEN. STAY, gentle Swains, for though in this

difguife,

I fee bright honor sparkle through your eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung
Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluce
Stole under feas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye, the breathing rofes of the wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this queft of yours, and free intent
Was all in honor and devotion meant

To the great miftrefs of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this night's glad folemnity;

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And lead you where ye may more near behold 40
What fhallow-fearching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst thefe fhades alone
Have fat to wonder at, and gaze upon :

For know by lot from Jove I am the Power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 45
To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my plants I fave from nightly ill
Of noifome winds, and blafting vapors chill:
And from the boughs brufa off the evil dew, 50
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Or what the crofs dire-looking planet fmites,
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites.
When evening gray doth rife, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground, 55
And early, ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the flumbering leaves, or taffel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, hafte I all about,
Number my ranks, and vifit every sprout

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more

With puifiant words, and murmurs made to blefs; Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere,

But elfe in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then liften I To the celeftial Syrens' harmony,

That fit upon the nine infolded spheres,

And fing to thofe that hold the vital shears,

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Such fweet compulfion doth in mufic lie,

To lull the daughters of Neceflity,
And keep uniteddy Nature to her law,
And the low world in meafur'd motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mold with grofs unpurged ear:
And yet fuch mufic worthieft were to blaze
The peerless highth of her immortal praife,
Whofe luftre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable founds; yet, as we go,
Whate'er the skill of leffer Geds can show,
I will affay, her worth to celebrate,
And fo attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where you may all that are of noble stem
Approach and kiss her facred vesture's hem.

11. SONG.

O'ER the smooth enamel'd green,
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I fing,

And touch the warbled string,

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I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feafon 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 bier
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 fpring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favor my deftin'd urn, And as he paffes turn,

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And bid fair peace be to my fable fhroud.
For we were nurit upon the self-same hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, fhade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the ftar that rofe, at evening, bright, 30
Tow'ard Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his weftering
wheel.

Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves
With wild thyme and the gaddingvine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copfes green,
Shall now no more be feen,

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Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds' ear.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend*, unfortunately drown'd in bis Paffage from Chefer on the Irife Seas, 1637, and by occafion foretels the Ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their bighth.

Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King, Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs

deep

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

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Alas! what boots it with inceffant care To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade, 65 And ftrictly meditate the thanklefs Mufe? Were it not better done, as others ufe, To fport with Amaryllis in the fhade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the fpur that the clear fpi'rit doth raise 70 (That laft infirmity 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 thears, 75
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praife,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

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

O fountain Arethufe, and thou honor'd flood, 85 Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds,

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Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 Like to that fanguin flower infcrib'd with woe. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Laft came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake, Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain) He fhook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake, How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young fwain, Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115 Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to feramble at the fhearers' feaft, And fhove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that fcarce themfelves know how to hold

A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the leaft That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! 121 What recks it them? What need they? They are fped;

And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their forannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed, 125 But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

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Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy ftreams; return, Sicilian Mufe,
And call the valcs, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. 135
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart itar fparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, 139
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The mufk-rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the penfive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty fhed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrow the laureat herfe where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpofe a little cafe,

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Let our frail thoughts dally with falfe furmife.
Ay me! Whilst thee the fhores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 155
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus cld,
Where the great vifion 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 hapless youth.

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Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your forrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So finks the day-ftar in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new fpangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 171 So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the

waves,

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Where other groves and other fireams along,
With nectar pure his oczy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptial fong,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops and sweet focieties,
That fing, and finging in their glory move, 18
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the fhore,
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in the perilous flood.

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Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th' oaks and ris, While the still morn went out with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the fun had ftretch'd out all the hills,

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PRESENTED AT LUDLOW CASTLE, 1634,

BEFORE THE EARL OF BRIDGEWATER, THEN PRESIDENT OF WALES.

The Mafk was prefented in 1634, and confequently in the 20th year of our author's age. In the title-page of the first edition, printed in 1637, it is faid that it was prefented on Michaelmas night, and there was this motto,

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In this edition, and in that of Milton's Poems in 1645, there was prefixed to the Mafk the following dedication,

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE

JOHN LORD VISCOUNT BRACKLY, SON AND HEIR APPARENT TO THE EARL OF BRIDGEWATER, &c.

MY LORD,

THIS poem, which received its first occafion of birth from yourself and others of your noble family, and much honor from your own person in the performance, now re turns again to make a final dedication of itself to you. Although not openly acknow ledg'd by the author, yet it is a legitimate offspring, fo lovely, and fo much defited, that the often copying of it hath tir'd my pen to give my feveral friends fatisfaction, and brought me to a neceflity of producing it to the public view; and now to offer it up in all rightful devotion to thofe fair hopes, and rare endowments of your much promifing youth, which give a full affurance, to all that know you, of a future excellence. Live, fweet Lord, to be the honor of your name; and receive this as your own, from the hands of him, who hath by many favors been long oblig'd to your most honor'd pa rents; and as in this representation your attendant Thyrfis, fo now in all real expreffion Your faithful and most

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