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 the eclipse,and rigged 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 inscribed with woe.
Ah!who hath reft,"quoth he,Rmy dearest pledge?"Last came,and last did go,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:--RHow 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!
Of other care they little reckoning 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 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,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 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 freaked 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,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,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,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,For Lycidas,your sorrow,is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery 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 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,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;
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 the oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals grey:
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:
Tomorrow to fresh woods,and pastures new.
