La came, and laft did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two mafly Keys he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron fhuts amain)
He took 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,
Then how to fcramble at the fhearers feaft,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that fcarce themselves know how to
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least [hold
That to the faithful Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their fcrannel Pipes of wretched ftraw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mift 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 fmite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That fhrunk thy ftreams; 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 milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart Star fparely looks.
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf fuck the honied fhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres,
Bring the rathe Primrofe that forfaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Geffamine,
The white Pink, and the Panfie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet,
The Musk-rofe, and the well-attir'd Woodbine,
With Cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty fhed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrew the Laureat Herfe where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpofe a little ease,
Ler our frail thoughts dally with falfe furmife.
Ayme! Whilft thee the fores, and founding Seas
Wafh far away, where ere thy bones are huri'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'it by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion 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 warry 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 ftreams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive 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 fore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth Swain to th' Okes and rills
While the ftill morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch'd the tender ftops of various Quills,
With eager thought waibling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun had ftretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the Western Bay;
At laft he rofe, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to freth Woods, and Paftures new.
L'Allegro.
Ence loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorn
'Mongft horrid shapes,and shrieks,and fights unholy, Find out fome uncouth cell,
where brooding darkness spreads his jeal‹ us wings, And the night Raven fings;
There under Ebon fhades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian defart ever dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrofine,
And by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two Sifter Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as fome Sager fing)
The frolick Wind that breaths the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on beds of Violets blue,
And fresh-blown Roses wafht in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buckfom, blith, and debonair.
Hafte thee Nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft and youthful Jollity,
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