The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes.

SPI. To the ocean now I fly,
And thofe happy climes that lie

Where day never fhuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the fky:
There I fuck the liquid air

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hefperus, and his daughters three
That fing about the golden tree:
Along the crifped fhades and bowers

980

Celeftial Cupid her fam'd fon advanc'd,
Holds his dear Pfyche fweet intranc'd,

1005

After her wandering labors long,

Till free confent the Gods among

Make

Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted fide
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; fo Jove hath fworn.

But now my tafk is fmoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

ΠΟΙΟ

Where the bow'd welkin flow doth bend,
And from thence can foar as foon

1015

To the corners of the moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love Virtue, the alone is free,
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would ftoop to her.

1920

XVII.

LY CIDA A S.

In this monody the author bewails a learned friend unfortunately drown'd in his paffage from Chefter on the Irish feas, 1637, and by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.

YET

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere,

I come to pluck your berries harth and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and, fad occafion dear,
Compels me to difturb your feafon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himfelf to fing, and build the lofty rhyme."
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome inelodious tear.

Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Muse

With lucky words favor my destin'd urn,

And as he paffes turn,

10

And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.

For

*Mr. Edward King, fon of Sir John King Secretary for Ireland, a fellow-collegian and intimate friend of our author.

For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove afield, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry hori,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night
Oft till the ftar that rofé, at evening, bright,
Toward Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his weftering
wheel.

Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to the oaten flute,

30

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35 And old Dainætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copfes green,

Shall now no more be feen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rofe,

45

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or froft to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When firft the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard ftream:
Ay me! I fondly dream

1

Had ye been, for what could that have done?
What could the Mufe herself that Orpheus bore,
The Mule herself for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore?
Alas! what boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And ftri&ly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use,
To fport with Amarillis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

55

бо

65

Fame is the fpur that the clear fpi'rit doth raise 70 (That laft infirmity of noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,
And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praife,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glitering foil

76

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies, 80
But lives and fpreads aloft by thofe pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thon honor'd flood, 85
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:

But