(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?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
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!
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, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
But that two handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 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 bells, and flow'rets 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 enamell'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
130. "Two handed engine"....the axe of reformation.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay 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'ard 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 wat❜ry floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
160. "The Fable of Bellerus old," &c. the Bellerian pro montory, or Land's end in Cornwall, near which is Mount St. Michael, a fortress on a rock, named from a supposed vision or apparition of St. Michael.
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 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 the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorie 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 twich'd his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
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, net abhorr'd ; Dare ye for this adjure the eivil sword
To force our consciences that Christ set free,
And ride 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
May, with their wholesome and preventive shears,
Chip your phylacteries, though bauk your ears;
And succour our just fears,
When they shall read this clearly in your charge,
New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.
THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, Lib. I.
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa....rendered almost word for word without rhyme, according to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.
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? how oft shall he
Ou faith and changed Gods complain, and seas
Rough with black winds, and storms
Inwonted 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
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