Oft in glimmering bowers and glades Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 35 40 With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, What worlds or what vast regions hold Or what (though rare) of later age 85 90 95 100 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek; Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass. 105 ΙΙΟ 115 In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont Where the rude axe with heavéd stroke While the bee with honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, 140 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, 170 175 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, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5 ΙΟ Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well 15 That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20 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; 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, 30 Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. |