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It was that fatal and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That sunk so low that Sacred head of thine.
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 fanguine flower inscribd with woe.
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my deareft pledge ?
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake
Two maffy Keys he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and fern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, youngswain,
Anow of such as for their bellies fake
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck’ning make,
That how to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden gueft;
[hold Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the least That to the faithful Herdman's Art belongs!
(sped, What recks it them? What need they? They are
And when they lift, their lean and flashy Songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched ftraw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Roc inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing fed,
But that two-handed Engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and fmite 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 Flourets 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 enamelld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the honied showers,
And purple all the Ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine
The white Pink, and the Pansie freak with jeat,
The glowing Violet,
The Musk-rose and the well attit'd Woodbine,
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that fad 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 daily with false furmise.
Ay me! Whilft thee the shores, and founding Seas
Walh far away, where e'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 moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the Fable of Bellerus old
Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Naymancos and Boyona's hold;
Look home-ward Angel now and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphinsi waft the helpless youth,
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the
; 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 funk low, but mounted high,
Through thedear might of him that walk'd the waves,
Where other groves, and other streams along,
Locks he layes
And hears the unexpressive nuptial Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn 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 perillous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes 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 blew :
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
Ence loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorne,
[holy, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks and fights unFind out some uncouth cell,
[wings, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous And the night-Raven sings ;
There under Ebon fhades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian desart eyer dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrofyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two Sister Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;