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[ ≤Ω≥ ] A P P E N D I X I I Lycidas Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere, I come to pluck you 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 float upon his wat’ry 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 favor my destin’s Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 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 eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, 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’n’s descent had slop’d his westering wheel. Meanwhile 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, a p p e n d i x i i [ ≤Ω∂ ] And old Dameatas 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, 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 Clod’d o’er the head of your lov’d Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shagy 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 th’abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. ‘‘But not the praise,’’ Phoebus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears; l y c i d a s [ ≤Ω∑ ] ‘‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set o√ to th’world, nor in broad rumor 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 Heav’n expect thy meed.’’ O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honor’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...


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