LYCIDAS. In this MONODY, the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth. YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude: Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn; And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud, For we were nurs'd 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 What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star, that rose, at evening, bright, Toward heaven's descent had slop'd his westering 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 sound would not be absent long: And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desart caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown: And all their echoes mourn : The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Had ye been there for what could that have done? When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Alas! what boots it with incessant care Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? To scorn delights, and live laborious days; Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies ; Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 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, The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys 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, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! |