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In this MONODY, the Author bewails a learned Friend', un
fortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their highth.
YEt once more, O ye laurels, and once more
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.
| Edward King, Esq. the son of Sir John King, knight, secretary for Ireland. He was sailing from Chester to Ireland, on a visit to his friends in that country, when in calm weather, not far from the English coast, the ship struck upon a rock, and suddenly sunk to the bottom with all that were on board, August 10, 1637. Mr. King was a fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
sable shroud. For we were nursed
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 afield, and both together heard What time the grey-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. Meanwbile 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, О 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 shepherds' 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 herelf, for her enchanting 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 ?
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 mind) To scoru 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," Phæbus 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 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,
O fountain Arethuse! and thou honor'd flood,
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 and last did go,
[pledge ?” 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 Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake (swain, Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 2 Æolus, the son of Hippotas.
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Return, Alpheus! the dread voice is pass’d, That shrunk thy streams: 'return, Sicilian Muse ! And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, aod wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamell’d eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak’d with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And
every flower that sad embroidery wears :