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On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heav'ns' wide pathless
way;

And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,
Swinging, slow with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still, removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen on some high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds, or what vast regions hold
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in its fleshly nook;
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,

Dr what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.

But, O sad virgin! that thy pow'r
Might raise Musæus from his bow'r,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did
seek;

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;

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With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.

And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard, the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd
haunt.

There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep:
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid:

And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high imbowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced choir below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear

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Ah me! I fondly dream, Had ye been there: for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Or

pheus bore,

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,

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. the praise,"

"But not

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistening foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor 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 honor'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 gusi, of rugged wings,

That blows from off each beaked prom

ontory:

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 aught else the least

That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They re sped;

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Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:

Ah me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide,

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;

Or whether thou, to our moist vows de nied,

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded

mount

Looks towards Namancos and Bayona'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 sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;

So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and, with newspangled ore,

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk 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 unexpressive nuptial song In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and

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O NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart does fill,

While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,

Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will

Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Nowtimely sing, e'er the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the muse, or love call thee

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