1638
                                    LYCIDAS
                                 by John Milton
LYCIDAS

  In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly
drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by
occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their
height.

        Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
        Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
        I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
        And with forc'd 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 flote upon his watry bear
        Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
        Without the meed of som melodious tear.
          Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
        That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
        Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
        Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
        So may som gentle Muse
        With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,
        And as he passes turn,
        And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.
        For we were nurst 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,
        Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
        Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning bright
        Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel.
        Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
        Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute;
        Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
        From the glad sound would not be absent long,
        And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song,
          But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
        Now thou art gon, and never must return!
        Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
        With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,
        And all their echoes mourn.
        The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
        Shall now no more be seen,
        Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
        As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
        Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
        Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
        When first the White thorn blows;
        Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
          Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
        Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
        For neither were ye playing on the steep,
        Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
        Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
        Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:
        Ay me, I fondly dream!
        Had ye bin there-for what could that have don?
        What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
        The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
        Whom Universal nature did lament,
        When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
        His goary 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 Shepherds trade,
        And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
        Were it not better don 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 dayes;
        But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
        And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
        Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
        And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
        Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
        Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
        Nor in the glistering foil
        Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
        But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
        And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;
        As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
        Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
          O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
        Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,
        That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
        But now my Oate proceeds,
        And listens to the Herald of the Sea
        That came in Neptune's plea,