Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups withi 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 bomes 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 denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward 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 watery 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 orc 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 recompence, 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 gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorick 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. 193

L'ALLEGRO.

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,