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She, having kill'd, no more does search
Where, when he first does lure,
-What may not then our Isle presume
What may not others fear
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
And to all States not free
The Pict no shelter now shall find
But from this valour, sad
Happy, if in the tufted brake
Nor lay his hounds in near
But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
And for the last effect
Besides the force it has to fright
The same arts that did gain
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,
He must not float upon his watery bier
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
25 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
30 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; 35 And old Damætas 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, 40 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,
45 Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50
60 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, 65 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 Neæra's hair ? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (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. “But 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,
80 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,
95 And sage Hippotadès 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,
100 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
105 Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. “Ah! who hath reft, quoth he, “my dearest pledge ?" Last came, and last did go. The Pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
110 (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 !
115 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