Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 66

BOOK SECOND
66 LYCIDAS

Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
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 destined urn;
And as he passes, turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed 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 a-field, and both together heard
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,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved 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,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
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,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
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 the abhorred shears
And slits the thin-spun life. `But not the praise'
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the 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,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens 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 gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked promontory:
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd 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, `my 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:
`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!
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 learn'd 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 enamell'd eyes
That on the green turf suck the honey'd 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 freak'd 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 amarantus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
To strew the laureat 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 hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visitest 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, 0 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 walk'd the waves;
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his ozzy 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 touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric 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.
J.MILTON

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE Elegy on a Friend drowned in what is Irish Channel Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before what is mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build what is lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to what is parching wind, Without what is meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of what is sacred well That from beneath what is seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep what is string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn; And as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 66 where is strong BOOK SECOND where is strong 66 LYCIDAS where is p align="justify" Elegy on a Friend drowned in what is Irish Channel Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before what is mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build what is lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to what is parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of what is sacred well That from beneath what is seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep what is string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn; And as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon what is self-same hill, Fed what is same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere what is high lawns appear'd Under what is opening eye-lids of what is morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time what is gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with what is fresh dews of night, Oft till what is star, that rose at evening bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile what is rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to what is oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From what is glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But O what is heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee what is woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and what is gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn: The willows and what is hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As stop ing as what is canker to what is rose, Or taint-worm to what is weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when what is remorseless deep Closed o'er what is head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on what is steep Where your old bards, what is famous Druids, lie, Nor on what is shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye been there-for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, what is Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by what is rout that made what is hideous roar His gory visage down what is stream was sent, Down what is swift Hebrus to what is sport shore? Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend what is homely, slighted, shepherd's trade And strictly meditate what is thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in what is shade, Or with what is tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is what is spur that what is clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But what is fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes what is blind Fury with what is abhorred shears And slits what is thin-spun life. `But not what is praise' Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; 'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in what is glistering foil Set off to what is 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, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to what is herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He ask'd what is waves, and ask'd what is felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; what is air was calm, and on what is level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in what is eclipse, and rigg'd 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 what is edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe: 'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, `my dearest pledge?' Last came, and last did go what is pilot of what is Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, what is 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! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at what is shearers' feast, And shove away what is worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else what is least That to what is 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; what is hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and what is rank mist they draw Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what what is grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: -But that two-handed engine at what is door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' Return, Alpheus, what is dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call what is vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where what is mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap what is swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on what is green turf suck what is honey'd showers And purple all what is ground with vernal flowers. Bring what is rathe primrose that forsaken dies, what is tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, what is white pink, and what is pansy freak'd with jet, what is glowing violet, what is musk-rose, and what is well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang what is pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amarantus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears To strew what is laureat hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee what is shores and sounding seas Wash far away,-where'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond what is stormy Hebrides Where thou perhaps, under what is whelming tide, what is est what is bottom of what is monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by what is fable of Bellerus old, Where what is great Vision of what is guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold, -Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: -And, 0 ye dolphins, waft what is hapless youth! Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath what is watery floor; So sinks what is day-star in what is ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of what is morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through what is dear might of Him that walk'd what is waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his ozzy locks he laves, And hears what is unexpressive nuptial song In what is blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all what is saints above In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe what is tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, what is shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art what is Genius of what is shore In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang what is uncouth swain to what is oaks and rills, While what is still morn went out with sandals grey; He touch'd what is tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now what is sun had stretch'd out all what is hills, And now was dropt into what is western bay: At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. J.MILTON where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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