Lycidas
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,
Ye
myrtles
brown,
with
ivy
never
sere,
I
come
to
pluck
your
berries
harsh
and
crude,
And
with
forced
fingers
rude
Shatter
your
leaves
before
the
mellowing
year.
Bitter
constraint
and
sad
occasion
dear
Compels
me
to
disturb
your
season
due;
For
Lycidas
is
dead,
dead
ere
his
prime,
Young
Lycidas,
and
hath
not
left
his
peer.
Who
would
not
sing
for
Lycidas?
he
knew
Himself
to
sing,
and
build
the
lofty
rhyme.
He
must
not
float
upon
his
watery
bier
Unwept,
and
welter
to
the
parching
wind,
Without
the
meed
of
some
melodious
tear.
Begin,
then,
Sisters
of
the
sacred
well
That
from
beneath
the
seat
of
Jove
doth
spring;
Begin,
and
somewhat
loudly
sweep
the
string.
Hence
with
denial
vain
and
coy
excuse:
So
may
some
gentle
Muse
With
lucky
words
favour
my
destined
urn,
And
as
he
passes
turn,
And
bid
fair
peace
be
to
my
sable
shroud!
For
we
were
nursed
upon
the
self-same
hill,
Fed
the
same
flock,
by
fountain,
shade,
and
rill;
Together
both,
ere
the
high
lawns
appeared
Under
the
opening
eyelids
of
the
Morn,
We
drove
a-field,
and
both
together
heard
What
time
the
grey-fly
winds
her
sultry
horn,
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
Damoetas
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,
With
wild
thyme
and
the
gadding
vine
o'ergrown,
And
all
their
echoes,
mourn.
The
willows,
and
the
hazel
copses
green,
Shall
now
no
more
be
seen
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,
When
first
the
white-thorn
blows;
Such,
Lycidas,
thy
loss
to
shepherd's
ear.
Where
were
ye,
Nymphs,
when
the
remorseless
deep
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
on
the
shaggy
top
of
Mona
high,
Nor
yet
where
Deva
spreads
her
wizard
stream.
Ay
me!
I
fondly
dream
Had
ye
been
there,S
.
.
.
for
what
could
that
have
done?
What
could
the
Muse
herself
that
Orpheus
bore,
The
Muse
herself,
for
her
enchanting
son,
Whom
universal
nature
did
lament,
When,
by
the
rout
that
made
the
hideous
roar,
His
gory
visage
down
the
stream
was
sent,
Down
the
swift
Hebrus
to
the
Lesbian
shore?
Alas!
what
boots
it
with
uncessant
care
To
tend
the
homely,
slighted,
shepherd's
trade,
And
strictly
meditate
the
thankless
Muse?
Were
it
not
better
done,
as
others
use,
To
sport
with
Amaryllis
in
the
shade,
Or
with
the
tangles
of
Neaera's
hair?
Fame
is
the
spur
that
the
clear
spirit
doth
raise
(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,
Comes
the
blind
Fury
with
the
abhorred
shears,
And
slits
the
thin-spun
life.
RBut
not
the
praise,"
Phoebus
replied,
and
touched
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,
But
lives
and
spreads
aloft
by
those
pure
eyes
And
perfect
witness
of
all-judging
Jove;
As
he
pronounces
lastly
on
each
deed,
Of
so
much
fame
in
heaven
expect
thy
meed."
O
fountain
Arethuse,
and
thou
honoured
flood,
Smooth-sliding
Mincius,
crowned
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
asked
the
waves,
and
asked
the
felon
winds,
What
hard
mishap
hath
doomed
this
gentle
swain?
And
questioned
every
gust
of
rugged
wings
That
blows
from
off
each
beaked
promontory.
They
knew
not
of
his
story;
And
sage
Hippotades
their
answer
brings,
That
not
a
blast
was
from
his
dungeon
strayed:
The
air
was
calm,
and
on
the
level
brine
Sleek
Panope
with
all
her
sisters
played.
It
was
that
fatal
and
perfidious
bark,
Built
in
the
eclipse,
and
rigged
with
curses
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
sanguine
flower
inscribed
with
woe.
Ah!
who
hath
reft,"
quoth
he,
Rmy
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!
Of
other
care
they
little
reckoning
make
Than
how
to
scramble
at
the
shearers'
feast,
And
shove
away
the
worthy
bidden
guest.
Blind
mouths!
that
scarce
themselves
know
how
to
hold
A
sheep-hook,
or
have
learnt
aught
else
the
least
That
to
the
faithful
herdman's
art
belongs!
What
recks
it
them?
What
need
they?
They
are
sped:
And,
when
they
list,
their
lean
and
flashy
songs
Grate
on
their
scrannel
pipes
of
wretched
straw;
The
hungry
sheep
look
up,
and
are
not
fed,
But,
swoln
with
wind
and
the
rank
mist
they
draw,
Rot
inwardly,
and
foul
contagion
spread;
Besides
what
the
grim
wolf
with
privy
paw
Daily
devours
apace,
and
nothing
said.
But
that
two-handed
engine
at
the
door
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,
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,
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,
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
hurled;
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,
Sleep'st
by
the
fable
of
Bellerus
old,
Where
the
great
Vision
of
the
guarded
mount
Looks
toward
Namancos
and
Bayona's
hold.
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
walked
the
waves,
Where,
other
groves
and
other
streams
along,
With
nectar
pure
his
oozy
locks
he
laves,
And
hears
the
unexpressive
nuptial
song,
In
the
blest
kingdoms
meek
of
joy
and
love.
There
entertain
him
all
the
Saints
above,
In
solemn
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
recompense,
and
shalt
be
good
To
all
that
wander
in
that
perilous
flood.
Thus
sang
the
uncouth
swain
to
the
oaks
and
rills,
While
the
still
morn
went
out
with
sandals
grey:
He
touched
the
tender
stops
of
various
quills,
With
eager
thought
warbling
his
Doric
lay:
And
now
the
sun
had
stretched
out
all
the
hills,
And
now
was
dropt
into
the
western
bay.
At
last
he
rose,
and
twitched
his
mantle
blue:
Tomorrow
to
fresh
woods,
and
pastures
new.
