XVII.

LYCIDAS *.

In this monody the Author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'd in his paffage from Chefter on the Irish Seas, 1637, and by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy then in their heighth.

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ET 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 forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
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 rhime.
He muft 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 spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring.

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*This poem was made upon the unfortunate and untimely death of Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King, Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of Milton, who as he was going to vifit his relations in Ireland, was drowned Aug. 10. 1637, in the 25th year of his age. This poem is with great judgment made of the paftoral kind, as both Mr. King and Milton had been defigned for holy orders and the paftoral care, which gives a peculiar propriety to feveral paffages in it.

Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Muse

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

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

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For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, fhade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the frefh dews of night,
Oft till the ftar that rofe, at evening, bright,
Tow'ard Heaven's defcent had flop'd his weft'ringwheel.
Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' oaten flute,

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

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But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never muít return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves. With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn.

The willows and the hazel copfes green

Shall now no more be seen,

28. What time the gray-fly, &c.] By the gray-fly is meant, no doubt, a brownish kind of beetle powder'd with a little white, commonly called a cock-chaffer; thefe in the hot fummer months, lie quiet all the day, but about fun fet, fly about with just such a fort of noife as anfwers the Poet's defcription.

36. And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.] He means probably Dr. William Chapel, who had been tutor to them both at Cambridge, and was afterwards Bishop of Cork and Rofs in Ireland.

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Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rofe,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When firft the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.

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Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep 50 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ?.

For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wifard stream: 55
Ay me! I fondly dream.

Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe herfelf for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And frictly meditate the thanklefs Mafe?
Were it not better done as ethers ufe,
To fport with Amaryllis in the fhade,

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Or with the tangles of Nera's hair?

Fame is the fpur that the clear fpi'rit doth raise (That laft infirmity of noble mind)

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To fcorn delights and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burft out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,
And flits the thin fpun life. But not the praise
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;

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Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and fpreads aloft by thofe pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

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

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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,

And liftens to the herald of the fea

That came in Neptune's plea ;

He afk'd the waves, and afk'd the fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle fwain ?
And question'd every guft of rugged winds,
That blows from off each beaked promontory;
They knew not of his story,

And fage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blaft was from his dungeon fray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

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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 Like to that fanguin flow'r infcrib'd with woe. Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my deareft pledge? Laft came, and laft did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two mafly keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)

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He fhook his miter'd locks, and stern 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?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers feast,

And fhove away the worthy bidden guest;

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Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought 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 lift, their lean and flashy fongs

Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But foll'n with wind, and the rank mift they draw,

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Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :

Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw

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Daily devours apace, and nothing faid,
But that two-handed engin at the door
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That fhrunk thy ftreams; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye Valleys low, where the mild whispers ufe
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the fwart ftar fparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,

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That on the green turf fuck the honied fhowers, 140
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,

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