Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise'; Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; 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 the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, 193 L'ALLEGRO. HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desart ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In Heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, |