He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon 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 Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
        Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
        It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
        Built in th' 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 inscrib'd 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 Keyes he bore of metals twain,
        (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
        He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
        How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
        Anow of such as for their bellies sake,
        Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
        Of other care they little reck'ning make,
        Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,
        And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
        Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold
        A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
        That to the faithfull Herdmans 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 Woolf with privy paw
        Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
        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 Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
        Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
        Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
        On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
        Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
        That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
        And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
        Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
        The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
        The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
        The glowing Violet.
        The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.
        With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
        And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
        Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
        And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
        To strew the Laureat Herse 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 ere thy bones are hurld,
        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 deny'd,
        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 haples youth.
          Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
        For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
        Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
        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 oozy Lock's he laves,
        And hears the unexpressive nuptiall 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;
        Hence forth 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 th' Okes and rills,
        While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
        He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,
        With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
        And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills,