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 shepherds' ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Had ye been there- for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar Alas! what boots it with incessant care I Were it not better done, as others use, To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds ! That strain I heard was of a higher mood: 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 beakéd promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotadés their answer brings, 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 inscribed 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 mitred locks, and stern bespake: 'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; But that two-handed engine at the door Return, Alphéus, the dread voice is past On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, Where the great Vision of the guarded mount - Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth: – And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! Weep no more, woeful 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 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; With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 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 Doric 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. J. Milton LXVII ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY MORTALITY, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones |