Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labours long,
Till free consent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue, she alone is free;
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime :
Or, if Virtue feeble were,

Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

1005

1010

1015

1020

1017 corners] Macbeth, a. 3. s. 5. 'Upon the corner of the moon.' Warton.

1021 sphery] 'sphery chime' is the chime or music of the spheres. Mids. N. Dream, act ii. sc. 7, 'Hermia's sphery eyne.' Machin's Dumbe Knight, (Reed's Old Pl. iv. 447), 'It was as silver as the chime of spheres.' Herrick's Hesp. p. 116, 'Fall down from those thy chiming spheres.'

Warton and Todd.

1023 stoop] 'bow.' MS.

LYCIDAS.

In this Monody, the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.

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 forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
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 10
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.
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;

15

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn,
And as he passes turn,

20

25

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurs'd 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 eyelids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

14 melodious] Cleveland's Obsequy on Mr. King, 'I like not tears in tune.' Todd.

17 sweep] 'E qui Calliopea alquanto surga.' Dante Purg.

i. 9.

19 Muse] 'Gentle Muse-he passes.' See Jortin's Tracts, i. p. 341.

23 nurs'd] Compare Past. Ægl. on Sir P. Sidney's death, by L. B. ver. 85.

'Through many a hill and dale,' &c.

26 opening] Middleton's Game at Chess. Like a pearl,

6

30

Oft till the star that rose, at evening bright, Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his west'ring Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, [wheel. Temper'd to th' oaten flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,

36

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.

41

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,

45

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,

When first the white-thorn blows;

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

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless

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

51

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

33 Temper'd] On this word see P. Fletcher's Purple Isl. c. ix. st. 3. Par. Lost, vii. 598. Warton.

37 thou art gone] Browne's Sheph. Pipe (ecl. 4). 'But he

is gone.'

50 Where] Spenser's Astrophel, st. 22,

Ah, where were ye the while his shepheard peares, &c. Warton.

Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

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

56

Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her inchanting son,

Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

60

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 65 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 mind)

71