Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil, Nor in the gliftering 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 lafily on each deed,
Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That flrain I heard was of a higher mood :
But now my Oate proceeds,
And liftens 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 guft of rugged winds That blows from off each beaked Promontory: They knew not of his ftory,
Ard fage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon ftray'd, The air was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her fisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious Bark
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that fanguine flower infcrib'd with woe. Ah; who hath rest (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Laft came, and last did go
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maffy Keys 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 fuch as for their bellies fake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold ? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Than how to fcramble at the shearer's feaft, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the leaft That to the faithful Herdman's art belongs ! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped And when they lift, their lean and flashy fongs Grate on their fcrannel 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 : Befides what the grim Wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing fed, But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is paft, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither caft Their Bells, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the mild whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, That on the green turf fuck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Jessamine,
The white Pink, and the Panfie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet, The Musk-rose, and the well-attir'd Woodbine, The Cowflips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that fad embroidery wears : Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies, For fo to interpose a little ease,
• Let our frail thoughts dally with false furmise. Ah me! Whilft thee the shores, and founding Seas Wash far away, where e'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Vifir'ft the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moift vows deny'd, Sleep'ft 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 hapless youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your forrow, is not dead; Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So finks the day-ftar 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 funk 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 bleft Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops, and sweet Societies, That fing, and finging in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever 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' 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 blue; To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and fights
Find out fome uncouth cell,
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell. But come thou Goddess fair and free, In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrofyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two Sister Graces more To Ivy-crown'd Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some Sages fing) The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring, Zephir with Aurora playing, As he met her once a Maying, There on beds of Violets blue, And fresh blown Roses washt in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buckfom, blith, and debonnair. Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple fleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his fides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew
To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And finging startle the dull night,
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