There let the pealing organ blow
To the full voic'd quire below,

In fervice high, and anthems cleer,
with sweetness through mine ear,

As

may

Diffolve me into extafies,

165

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,

The hairy gown, and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell 170
Of every ftar that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomthing like prophetick ftrain.
These pleasures Melancholy give, 175
And I with thee will choose to live.

LY CID A S.

IN this Monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'd, in his passage from Chester, on the Irish feas, 1637. And by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.

BY THE SAME.

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-fear,

I com to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear
Compells me to difturb your feafon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry biere
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind
Without the meed of fom melodious tear.

Begin then, fifters of the facred well,

That from beneath the feat of Joue doth spring;

ΤΟ

15

Begin, and fomwhat loudly fweep the string:

Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe:

With lucky words favor

my

deftin'd urn,

20

And as he paffes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my fable shrowd:
For we were nurft upon the self-same hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, fhade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with those fresh dews of night,
Oft till the ftar that rose at ev'ning bright,
Toward Heav'ns defcent had flop'd his weftering

wheel.

Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to th' oaten flute,

30

Rough fatyrs danc'd, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35 And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee, fhepherd, thee the woods and defert caves With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'regrown,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or froft to flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the white thorn blows ;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

50

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: 55 Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had

ye bin there---for what could that have don? What could the Mufe herself that Orpheus bore? The Mufe herself for her inchanting fon, Whom univerfal nature did lament,

60

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
Alas! what boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherds trade, 65
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better don as others ufe,
To fport 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 laft infirmity of noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, 75
And flits the thin fpun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies, 80
But lives and fpreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, 85 Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood:

But now my oat proceeds,

And liftens to the herald of the fea

That came in Neptune's plea ;

He afk'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds,

90

What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle fwain? And question'd every guft of rugged winds

That blows from off each beaked promontory;

They knew not of his story,

And fage Hippotades their answer brings,

95

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark

100

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curfes dark, That funk fo low that facred head of thine.