Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105 Like to that fanguine flower infcrib'd with woe. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Laft came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keyes he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)

110

He shook his miter'd locks, and ftern bespake, How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young swain, Anow 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 feaft,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how

to hold

121

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull herdmans 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, 125
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Befides what the grim woolf with privy paw

130

Daily devours apace; and nothing fed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flourets of a thousand hues. 135
Ye valleys low, where the milde whispers use
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the fwart ftar sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres ; 141
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale geffamine,
The white pink, and the panfie fret with jeat,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rofe, and the well attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the pensive hed,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears;
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

To ftrow the laureat herse where Lycid lies:
For fo to interpose a little ease,

145

150

Let our frail thoughts dally with false furmife. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and founding feas Wash far away, whereere thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

156

160

Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monstrous 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 Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the haples youth.

Weep no more, woful fhepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar;
So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

166

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning fky: 171
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 fong,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love;
There entertain him all the faints above,

In folemn troops and fweet focieties,

175

That fing, and finging in their glory move, 180 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.

185

Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th❜oakes and

rills,

While the ftill morn went on with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay ; 191 At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blew : Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

SONNE T.

BY THE SAME.

Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'ft at eeve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lovers heart doft fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the fhallow cuccoo's bill Portend fuccefs in love; O, if Jove's will Have linkt that amorous power to thy foft lay,

5

Now timely fing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeles doom in fom grove ny: 10 As thou from yeer to yeer haft fung too late

For

my relief; yet hadst no reason why :

Whether the Mufe, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I ferve, and of their train am I.