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 flowrets 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 enamel'd eyes.
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And

every

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strow the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.

For so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

Ah me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 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 tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watry floor;
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 on high,
Where other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial 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;
Henceforth 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' oaks 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 Doric 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 blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

XVIII.

THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, LIB. I.

QUIS MULTA GRACILIS TE PUER IN ROSA,

RENDERED ALMOST WORD FOR WORD WITHOUT RHIME, ACCORDING TO
THE LATIN MEASURE, AS NEAR AS THE LANGUAGE WILL PREMIT.

WHAT slender youth bedew'd with liquid odours
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? for whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? Oh how oft shall he
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas

Rough with black winds and storms

Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful. Hapless they

To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me in my vow'd
Picture the sacred wall declares t' have hung

My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.

HORATIUS EX PYRRHÆ ILLECEBRIS TANQUAM E NAUFRAGIO ENATA

VERAT, CUJUS AMORE IRRETITOS, AFFIRMAT ESSE miseros.

QUIS multa gracilis te puer in rosa

Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus,

Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam

Simplex munditiis? heu quoties fidem
Mutatosque deos flebit, et aspera
Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur insolens!

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,

Qui semper vacuam semper amabilem

Sperat, nescius auræ

Fallacis. Miseri quibus

Intentata nites. Me tabula sacer

Votiva paries indicat uvida

Suspendisse potenti

Vestimenta maris Deo.

XIX.

ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE

UNDER THE LONG PARLIAMENT.

BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord,
And with stiff vows renounc'd his Liturgy
To seize the widow'd whore Plurality

From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr❜d,
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword

To force our consciences that Christ set free, And hide us with a classic hierarchy Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ? Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, Must now be nam'd and printed Heretics By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament