Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

55

Ay me! I fondly dream

"Had ye been there"-for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 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 uncessant 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,

60

65

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)

70

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 th' abhorrèd shears,

75

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touched 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 spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

80

Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood;

85

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea,

That came in Neptune's plea.

90

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,

"What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?"

And questioned 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 strayed:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope, with all her sisters, played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

100

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.

105

"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

ΙΙΟ

(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!

115

Of other care they little reck'ning 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 learnt aught else the least

120

That to the faithful herdman's 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 wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
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 bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

130

135

Of shades and wanton winds and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed 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 freakt 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;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

140

145

150

To strew the laureate hearse 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'er thy bones are hurled:
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

155

Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
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 hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more;

165

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor.

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 walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

175

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 forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth 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' oaks and rills,
While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
1637.

1638.

180

185

190

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY

Captain or colonel or knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

5

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground; and the repeated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save th' Athenian walls from ruin bare. 1642.

1645.

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY
Daughter to that good earl, once President
Of England's Council and her Treasury,
Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,

ΙΟ

Till the sad breaking of that Parliament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,

Killed with report that old man eloquent;
Though later born than to have known the days
Wherein your father flourisht, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I see him living yet:

So well your words his noble virtues praise
That all both judge you to relate them true
And to possess them, honoured Margaret.
1644 or 1645.

1645.

ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY
WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient liberty,

When straight a barbarous noise environs me
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs;

As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee.
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
License they mean when they cry liberty;

For who loves that must first be wise and good:
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.
1645 or 1646.

1673.

5

ΙΟ

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652

ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE FOR

PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,