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And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song, HENCE, vain deluding joys,
In her sweetest, saddest plight, The brood of Folly without father bred !
Smoothing the rugged brow of night, How little you bestad,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Gently o'er the accustomed oak, Dwell in some idle brain,
Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
Most musical, most melancholy! As thick and numberless
Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, As the gay motes that people the sunbeams;
I woo, to hear thy even-song; Or likest hovering dreams,
And, missing thee, I walk unseen The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
On the dry smooth-shaven green, But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,
To behold the wandering moon, Hail, divinest Melancholy !
Riding near her highest noon, Whose saintly visage is too bright
Like one that had been led astray To hit the sense of human sight,
Through the Heaven's wide pathless way; And therefore to our weaker view
And oft, as if her head she bowed, O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Black, but such as in esteem
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
I hear the far-off curfew sound, Or that starred Ethiop queen* that strove
Over some wide-watered shore, To set her beauty's praise above
Swinging slow with sullen roar: The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:
Or, if the air will not permit, Yet thou art higher far descended:
Some still removed place will fit, The bright-haired Vesta, long of yore,
Where glowing embers through the room To solitary Saturn bore ;
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; His daughter she; (in Saturn's reign,
Far from all resort of mirth, Such mixture was not held a stain ;)
Save the cricket on the hearth, Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
Or the belman's drowsy charm, He met her, and in secret shades
To bless the doors from nightly harm. Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
Or let my lamp at midnight hour, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
Be seen in some high lonely tower, Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Where I might oft outwatch the Bear, Sober, steadfast, and demure,
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere All in a robe of darkest grain,
The spirit of Plato, to unfold Flowing, with majestic train,
What worlds or what vast regions hold And sable stole of Cyprus lawn,
The immortal mind, that hath forsook Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Her mansion in this fleshy nook: Come, but keep thy wonted state,
And of those demons that are found With even step and musing gait,
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, And looks commercing with the skies,
Whose power hath a true consent Thy wrapt soul sitting in thine eyes;
With planet, or with element. There, held in holy passion still,
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy Forget thyself to marble, till
In sceptered pall come sweeping by, With a sad leaden downward cast
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Thou fix them on the earth as fast :
Or the tale of Troy divine; And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Or what (though rare) of latter age Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. And hears the Muses in a ring
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
Might raise Musæus from his bower! And add to these retired Leisure,
Or bid the souls of Orpheus sing That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:
Such notes, as, warbled to the string, But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, Him that yon soars on golden wing,
And made hell grant what love did seek ! Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
Or call up him that left half-told The cherub Contemplation:
The story of Cambuscan bold, “That starred Ethiop queen”_Casiope, wife of Of Camball, and of Algarsife, Cepheus
And who had Canace to wife,
Of every star that heaven doth show And every herh that sips the dew: Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.
ARCADES. Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Douager
of Derby at Harefield, by some noble persons of her fami. ly; who appear on the scene in pastoral habil, moving to ward the seat of state, with this song.
That owned the virtuous ring and glass:
Thus, night, oft see me in thy pale career,
But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstacies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes,
And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell
Look, nymphs and shepherds, look,
This, this is she
Less than half we find exprest,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Siiting like a goddess bright,
In the centre of her light. Might she the wise Latona be, Or the towered Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods? Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparalleled ? As they come forward, the Geniils of the wood appears, and
turning towards them, speaks.
Genius. Stay, gentle swains, for, though in this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse,
And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver buskined nymphs, as great and good, I know this quest of yours, and free intent, Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine; And, with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more
By sandy Ladon's lilied banks: Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon:
On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar, For know, by lot from Jove, I am the power
Trip no more in twilight ranks; Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soil shall give ye thanks.
Bring your flocks, and live with us;
To serve the lady of this place. And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were, Or what the cross dire looking planet smites,
Yet Syrinx well might wait on her. Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.
Such a rural queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.
seas, 1637, and by occasion foretells the ruin of our cor
rupted clergy, then in their height. Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Syren's harmony,
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, And sing to those that hold the vital shears. I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And turn the adamantine spindle round, And, with forced fingers rude, On which the fate of gods and men is wound. Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie, Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, To lull the daughters of Necessity,
Compels me to disturb your season due: And keep unsteady Nature to her law,
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, And the low world in measured motion draw Young Lycidas, and has not left his peer: After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear:
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. And yet such music worthiest were to blaze He must not float upon his watery bier The peerless height of her immortal praise, Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit, Without the meed of some melodious tear. If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, Inimitable sounds : yet, as we go,
That from beneath the seat of jove doth spring;
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, O'er the smooth enameled green,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Where no print of step hath been
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Follow me, as I sing
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, And touch the warbled string,
We drove afield, and both together heard Under the shady roof
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Of branching elm star-proof.
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Follow me:
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, I will bring you where she sits,
Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westerClarl in splendour as befits,
Her deity. Such a rural queen
• “ So may some gentle Muse"-Muse in the masculino All Arcadia hath not seen.
gender here means Poet.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, And listens to the herald of the sea*
That came in Neptune's plea:
That blows from off each beaked promontory: Now thou art gone, and never must return! They know not of his story; Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves And sage Hippotades their answer brings, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: And all their echoes mourn:
The air was calm, and on the level brine The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. Shall now no more be seen
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays, Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, As killing as the canker to the rose,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, When first the whitethorn blows;
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with wo. Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless ' Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?' deep
Last came, and last did go,
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: “ How well could I have spared for thee, young Ah me! I fondly dream!
swain, Had ye been there—for what could that have done? Enow of such as for their bellies' sake What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Of other care they little reckoning make, Whom universal nature did lament,
Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, And shove away the worthy bidden guest : His gory visage down the stream was sent, Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ?
to hold Alas! what boots it with incessant care A sheephook, or have learned aught else the least To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? What recks it them? What need they? They are Were it not better done, as others use,
sped; To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair ?
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, (That last infirmity of noble mind)
But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they To scorn delights, and live laborious days:
draw, But the fair guerdon, when we hope to find, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, Daily devours apace, and nothing said: And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,” But that two-handed enginet at the door, Phæbus replied, and touched my trembling ears: Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." “Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, Nor in the glistering foil
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies: And call the vales, and bid them hither cast But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, Their bells, and flow'reis of a thousand hues. And perfect witness of all judging Jove; Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.” On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal That on the green turf suck the honied shower,
reeds! That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
• "The herald of the sea."-Trilon. But now my oat proceeds,
"Two-handed engine."—the are of reformation.
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CON-
SCIENCE UNDER THE LONG PAR.
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, To seize the widowed whore Plurality
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred;
To force our consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic hierarchy
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul,
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call : Where, other groves and other streams along, But we do hope to find out all your tricks, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
Your plots and packing worse than those of And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
Trent. In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love,
That so the parliament There entertain him all the saints above, May with their wholesome and preventive shears,
Clip your phylacteries, though bauk your ears, * “ The fable of Bellerus old,” &c. The Bellerian pro
And succour our just fears montory or Land's end in Cornwall, near which is Mount Sc. Michael, a fortress on a rock, named from a supposed visiou When they shall read this clearly in your charge, or apparition of St. Michael
New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.