Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb;
Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom?
Oh, no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality, that shew'd thou wast divine.

Resolve me, then, O soul most surely blest,
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear!)
Tell me, bright spirit, where'er thou hoverest,
Whether above that high first-moving sphere,
Or in the Elysian fields, (if such there were :)
Oh, say me true, if thou wert mortal wight,
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy
flight?

Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof
Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which careful Jove in nature's true behoof
Took up, and in fit place did reinstal?
Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall
Of sheeny heaven, and thou, some goddess,
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd
head?

fled

When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee,
O time!

VI.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy, Sphere-born, harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse.

Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,

Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;

And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits thereon,

Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee ;
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow:
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious
palms,

Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly:

May rightly answer that melodious noise,
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh

din

Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion
sway'd

In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
Oh, may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long,
To His celestial concert us unite,

To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

VII.

AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WIN-
CHESTER.

THIS rich marble doth inter

The honour'd wife of Winchester.
A viscount's daughter, an earl's heir
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,

More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She has told; alas! too soon,
After so short time of breath,

To house with darkness and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire, for her, request
The god that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came,
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland, as he stood,
Ye might discern a cypress-bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree.
The hapless babe, before his birth,
Had burial, yet not laid in earth:
And the languish'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip,
Saved with care from winter's nip,

The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower,
New shot up from vernal shower;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Sideways, as on a dying bed,

And those pearls of dew she wears

Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hastening funeral.
Gentle lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore,'
Sweet rest seize thee evermore.
That, to give the world increase,
Shorten'd hast thy own life's lease,

Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon;

謹

And some flowers, and some bays,

For thy hearse, to strew the ways,

Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;

Whilst thou, bright saint, high sitt'st in glory,

Next her, much like to thee in story,

That fair Syrian shepherdess

Who, after years of barrenness,
The highly favour'd Joseph bore
To him that served for her before,
And, at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright

Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee, new welcome saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No marchioness, but now a queen.

VIII.

ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her

The flowery May, who, from her green lap, throws

The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing.
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

The Characters appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving towards the seat of state, with this

song:

I. SONG.

LOOK, nymphs, and shepherds, look, What sudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence descry, Too divine to be mistook?

This, this is she

To whom our vows and wishes bend:
Here our solemn search hath end.

Fame, that, her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,

Less than half we find express'd;
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark, what radiant state she spreads.
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threads;
This, this is she alone,

Sitting, like a goddess bright,
In the centre of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the tower'd Cybele,

Mother of a hundred gods?

Juno dares not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparallel'd?

As they come forward, the Genius of the wood appears, and, turning towards them, speaks:

Gen. Stay, gentle swains, for, though in this disguise,

I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes;

Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, so often sung,
Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice,
Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye, the breathing roses of the wood,
Fair silver-buskin'd nymphs, as great

good;;

I know this quest of yours, and free intent, Was all in honour and devotion meant

and

To the great mistress of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine
And, with all helpful service, will comply
To further this night's glad solemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What shallow-searching Fame hath left un-
told;

Which I full oft, amidst these shades alone,
Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know, by lot from Jove, I am the power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings

But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Syrens' harmony;
That sit upon the nine infolded spheres,
And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
And turn the adamantine spindle round,
On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lic,
To lull the daughters of necessity,
And keep unsteady Nature to her law,
And the low world in measured motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear:
And yet such music worthiest were to blaze
The peerless height of her immortal praise,
Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable sounds; yet, as we go,
What'er the skill of lesser gods can shew,
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,

And so attend ye toward her glittering state;

Where ye may all, that are of noble stem, Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

II. SONG.

O'er the smooth enamell'd green, Where no print of step hath been, Follow me, as I sing

And touch the warbled string,
Under the shady roof
Of branching elin, star-proof.
Follow me;

I will bring you where she sits,
Clad in splendour as befits
Her deity.

Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

III. SONG.

Nymphs and shepherds, dance no more
By sandy Ladon's lilied banks;
On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks;
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Mænalus

Bring your flocks, and live with us;
Here ye shall have greater grace,

To serve the lady of this place.

Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,

Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

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

I come, to pluck your berries harsh and crude;
And, with forced fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew,
Himself, to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well,

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring:

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may some gentle muse

With lucky words favour my destined urn;
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. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute;
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven

heel

From the glad sound would not be absent long:

And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert

caves,

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,

And all their echoes, mourn:

The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe

wear,

When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard

stream:

Ah me! I fondly dream,

Had ye been there: for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,

Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous rear,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis, in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)

To scorn delights and live laborious days:
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze.
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred
shears,

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal
reeds!

That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea :

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?

And question'd every gust, of rugged wings,
That blows from off each beaked promontory:
They knew not of his story;

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark.
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses
dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with

woe.

"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?"

Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake:

Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
"How well could I have spared for thee young
swain,

Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake,
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest:
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know
how to hold

A sheep-hook or have learn'd ought else the least