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For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel + From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35 And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
The willows, and the hazel copses green, - Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. /
50 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 55 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. ,
Ay me! I fondly dream “Had ye been there,"....for what could that
have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 60 Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sente> Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 85 To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
(That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But, the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 75 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears, i
And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,"
Phæbus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, 85
Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
wa Ahl who hath reft," quoth he, “my dearest C. pledge?” ☺ Last came, and last did go, Luis
The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; mo,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
Of other care they little reckoning make,
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 125 The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
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 flowerets 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 enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140 And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, viulu l 145 The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
· 150 To strew the laureate hearse 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 denied,