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Like to that fanguin flow'r infcrib'd with woe. Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Laft came, and laft did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,


Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)
He shook his miter'd locks, and stern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee young swain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies fake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115
Of other care they little reck'ning make,



Than how to scramble at the fhearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the least
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs,
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed;
But fwoln 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 engin at the door
Stands ready to fmite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy ftreams; return Sicilian Muse,





And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye Valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The mufk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flow'r that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty fhed;

with tears,

And daffadillies fill their cups
To ftrow the laureat herse where Lycid lies.

For fo to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.



Ay me! Whilft thee the shores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 155
Whether beyond the flormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,


Where the great vision of the guarded mount


Looks tow'ard 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 forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floor;
So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new fpangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves,
Where other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

And hears the unexpreffive nuptial song,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops, and sweet societies,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.





Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th' oaks and rills, While the ftill morn went out with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay :

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And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190
And now was dropt into the western bay;

At last he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.


The Fifth ODE of Horace, Lib. I. Quis multa gracilis te puer in rofa, rendred almost word for word without rime, according to the Latin 'meafure, as near as the language will permit.

HAT slender youth bedew'd with liquid odors


Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,

Pyrrah? for whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he

On faith and changed Gods complain, and feas
Rough with black winds and storms

Unwonted fhall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,

Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful. Hapless they



To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me in my vow'd

Picture the facred wall declares t' have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the ftern God of sea.






Horatius ex Pyrrhæ illecebris tanquam è naufragio enataverat, cujus amore irretitos affirmat esse miferos.


UIS multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfufus liquidis urget odoribus,
Grato, Pyrrha, fub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam.

Simplex munditiis? heu quoties fidem
Mutatofque deos flebit, et afpera
Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur infolens!

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,

Qui femper vacuam semper amabilem
Sperat, nefcius auræ
Fallacis. Miferi quibus

Intentata nites. Me tabula facer

Votiva paries indicat uvida

Sufpendiffe potenti

Veftimenta maris Deo.





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