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Their faith, their patience, and their truth,
To triumph in victorious dance
O'er sensual folly and intemperance.
The dances ended, the SPIRIT epiloguizes.
And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky.
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours
There eternal Summer dwells,
And west winds with musky wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can shew,
Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced
But now my task is smoothly done: I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
Heaven itself would stoop to her,
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.
YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
Tempered to the oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damotas loved to hear our song.
But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless 50
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
"Had ye been there," . . . for what could that have
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea,
That came in Neptune's plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ?
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,