Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
John Milton. 16081674317. Lycidas A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more | |
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, | |
I com 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 rhyme. | |
He must not flote upon his watry bear | |
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, | |
Without the meed of som melodious tear. | |
Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, | 15 |
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, | |
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. | |
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, | |
So may som gentle Muse | |
With lucky words favour my destin’d Urn, | 20 |
And as he passes turn, | |
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. | |
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, | |
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. | |
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’d | 25 |
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, | |
Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, | |
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright | 30 |
Toward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel. | |
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, | |
Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute; | |
Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel, | |
From the glad sound would not be absent long, | 35 |
And old Damætas lov’d to hear our song. | |
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, | |
Now thou art gon, and never must return! | |
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, | |
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown, | 40 |
And all their echoes mourn. | |
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, | |
Shall now no more be seen, | |
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. | |
As killing as the Canker to the Rose, | 45 |
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, | |
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, | |
When first the White thorn blows; | |
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. | |
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep | 50 |
Clos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas? | |
For neither were ye playing on the steep, | |
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, | |
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, | |
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: | 55 |
Ay me, I fondly dream! | |
Had ye bin there—for what could that have don? | |
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, | |
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son | |
Whom Universal nature did lament, | 60 |
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 uncessant care | |
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, | 65 |
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, | |
Were it not better don 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 | 70 |
(That last infirmity of Noble mind) | |
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; | |
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, | |
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, | |
Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears, | 75 |
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, | |
Phoebus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears; | |
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, | |
Nor in the glistering foil | |
Set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies, | 80 |
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, | |
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; | |
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, | |
Of so much fame in Heav’n expect thy meed. | |
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour’d floud, | 85 |
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds, | |
That strain I heard was of a higher mood: | |
But now my Oate proceeds, | |
And listens to the Herald of the Sea | |
That came in Neptune’s plea, | 90 |
He ask’d the Waves, and ask’d the Fellon winds, | |
What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle swain? | |
And question’d every gust of rugged wings | |
That blows from off each beakèd Promontory, | |
They knew not of his story, | 95 |
And sage Hippotades their answer brings, | |
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d, | |
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, | |
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d. | |
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark | 100 |
Built in th’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 | 105 |
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d 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 Keyes he bore of metals twain, | 110 |
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) | |
He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake, | |
How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain, | |
Anow of such as for their bellies sake, | |
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? | 115 |
Of other care they little reck’ning make, | |
Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, | |
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. | |
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold | |
A Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the least | 120 |
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! | |
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; | |
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs | |
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, | |
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, | 125 |
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, | |
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: | |
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw | |
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, | |
But that two-handed engine at the door, | 130 |
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. | |
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, | |
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, | |
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast | |
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. | 135 |
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, | |
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, | |
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, | |
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, | |
That on the green terf suck the honied showres, | 140 |
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. | |
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. | |
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, | |
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, | |
The glowing Violet. | 145 |
The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine. | |
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, | |
And every flower that sad embroidery wears: | |
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, | |
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, | 150 |
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. | |
For so to interpose a little ease, | |
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. | |
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas | |
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, | 155 |
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 deny’d, | |
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old, | 160 |
Where the great vision 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 Shepherds weep no more, | 165 |
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, | |
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, | |
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, | |
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, | |
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, | 170 |
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 Lock’s he laves, | 175 |
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, | |
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. | |
There entertain him all the Saints above, | |
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies | |
That sing, and singing in their glory move, | 180 |
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. | |
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; | |
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, | |
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good | |
To all that wander in that perilous flood. | 185 |
Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills, | |
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, | |
He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills, | |
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: | |
And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills, | 190 |
And now was dropt into the Western bay; | |
At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew: | |
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. |