Page images

The Dances ended, the SPIRIT epiloguises.

Sp. To the ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky :
There I suck the liquid air
All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree :
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring;
There eternal Summer dwells,
And West-Winds, with musky wing,
About the cedar'd alleys fling
Nard and Cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can shew;
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List, mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of hyacinth and roses,
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits the' Assyrian queen:
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid, her fam'd son, advanc'd,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranc❜d,
After her wandering labours long,
Till free consent the gods among

Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run,

Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend;
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

[merged small][ocr errors]



In this MONODY, the author bewails a learned friend,* unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637: and by occasion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.


YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 2 Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 4 And, with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: 6 Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, > Compels me to disturb your season due : 31 For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 9 Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:

Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew "Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

*Edward King, Esq. the son of Sir John King, knight, secretary for Ireland. He was sailing from Chester to Ireland, on a visit to his friends in that country, when, in calm weather, not far from the English coast, the ship struck upon a rock, and suddenly sunk to the bottom with all that were on board, August 10, 1637. Mr. King was a fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge.

He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

1 Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;
And, as he passes, turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurs❜d 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 afield, and both together heard 32
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star, that rose, at evening, bright,
Tow'rd heaven's descent had slop'd his westering
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, [wheel.
Temper'd to the' oaten flute;

[ocr errors]

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damotas lov'd to hear our song.

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn:

The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,

« EelmineJätka »