207 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
207 lines
9.9 KiB
Plaintext
1638
|
|
LYCIDAS
|
|
by John Milton
|
|
LYCIDAS
|
|
|
|
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly
|
|
drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by
|
|
occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their
|
|
height.
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
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 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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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
|
|
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
|
|
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,
|
|
And old Damaetas 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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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
|
|
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:
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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 Neaera's hair?
|
|
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
|
|
(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' abhorred shears,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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 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 Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
|
|
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
|
|
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
|
|
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
|
|
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,
|
|
(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?
|
|
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
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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.
|
|
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,
|
|
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.
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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,
|
|
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.
|
|
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,
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
-THE END-
|
|
.
|