The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious Bark
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet fedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fanguine flower inferib'd with woe.
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my deareft pledge!
Laft came, and laft did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maffy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron fhuts amain)
He fhook his Miter'd locks, and stern befpake,
How well could I have fpai'd for thee young fwain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies fake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to scramble at the fhearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. [hold
Blind mouthes! that fcarce themselves know how to
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the leaft
That to the faithfull Herdfmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are fped;
And when they lift, their lean and flashy fongs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched ftraw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Befides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing fed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to fmite once, and finite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is paft,
That shrunk thy ftreams; Return Sicilian Mufe,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither caft
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues,
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
*Of fhades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart Star fparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf fuck the honied fhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Geffamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet,
The Musk-rofe, and the well attir'd Woodbine,
With Cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty fhed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrew the Laureat Herfe where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false furmife.
Ay me! Whilft thee the shores, and founding Seas
Wafh far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the ftormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Boyena's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth,
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So finks the day-ftar 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 ftreams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptiall Song,
In the bleft Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops, and fweet Societies
That fing, 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 fhore,
In thy large recompenfe, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth Swain to th' Okes and rills, While the ftill morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had ftretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At laft he rofe, and twitch'd his Mantle blew : To morrow to fresh Woods, and raftures new.
A PANEGYRICK to my Lord Protector, of the prefent Greatness and joint Intereft of his Highness and this Nation. In the YEAR 1654.
By EDMOND WALLER, Efq; While with a ftrong, and yet a gentle Hand
You bridle Faction, and our Hearts command,
Protect us from our felves, and from the Foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too:
Let partial Spirits ftill aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd that they cannot Reign,
And own no Liberty, but where they may
Without Controul upon their Fellows prey.
Above the Waves as Neptune fhew'd his Face
To chide the Winds, and fave the Trojan Race;
So has your Highness, rais'd above the reft,
Storms of Ambition toffing us repreft.
Your drooping Country, torn with Civil Hate,
Reftor'd by you, is made a Glorious State;
The Seat of Empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scotch, to fetch their Doom.
The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet,
With bending Sails, each Veffel of our Fleet.
Your Pow'r extends as far as Winds can blow,
Or fwelling Sails upon the Globe may go.
Heav'n, that hath plac'd this Island to give Law,
To ballance Europe, and her States to awe,
In this Conjuction doth on Britain fmile;
The greatest Leader, and the greatest Ifle.
Whether this Portion of the World were rent
By the rude Ocean from the Continent,
Or thus created, it was fure defign'd
To be the facred Refuge of Mankind.
Hither th' Oppreffed fhall henceforth refort
Juftice to crave, and Succour, at your Court;
And then your Highness, not for our's alone,
But for the World's Protector fhall be known.
Fame fwifter than your winged Navy flies
Thro' ev'ry Land that near the Ocean lies,
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadful News
To all that Piracy and Rapine use.
With fuch a Chief the meanest Nation bleft,
Might hope to lift her Head above the reft:
What may be thought impoffible to do
By us, embraced by the Seas, and you?
Lords of the World's great Waste, the Ocean, we
Whole Forests send to reign upon the Sea,
And ev'ry Coaft may trouble or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.
Angels and we have this Prerogative,
That none can at our happy Seats arrive;
While we defcend at Pleafure to invade
The Bad with Vengeance, and the Good to aid.
Our little World, the Image of the Great,
Like that, amidst the boundless Ocean fet,
Of her own Growth hath all that Nature craves,
And all that's rare, as Tribute from the Waves,
As Egypt does not on the Clouds relie,
But to the Nile owes more than to the Sky;
So what our Earth and what our Heav'n denies,
Our ever-conftant Friend, the Sea, supplies.
The Taste of hot Arabia's Spice we know,
Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow;
Without the Worm in Perfian Silks we fhine,
And without Planting drink of ev'ry Vine.
To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs,
Gold (tho' the heaviest Metal) hither fwims:
Ours is the Harveft where the Indians mow,
We plough the Deep, and reap what others fow.
Things of the nobleft kind our own Soil breeds;
Stout are our Men and warlike are our Steeds;
Rome (tho' her Eagle thro' the World had flown}
Cou'd never make this Island all her own.
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