Lycidas
 
(1637)
 
 
           In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.


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.         5
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         10
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         15
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,         20
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 appeared         25
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright         30
Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute; 
Tempered to the oaten flute 
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long;         35
And old Damœtas loved to hear our song. 
  But, oh! 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,         40
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,         45
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         50
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 wisard stream.         55
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 inchanting son, 
Whom universal nature did lament,         60
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,         65
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 Neæra’s hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise         70
(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 abhorrèd shears,         75
And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,” 
Phœbus replied, and touched 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,         80
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 honoured flood,         85
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned 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.         90
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory. 
They knew not of his story;         95
And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed: 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,         100
Built in the eclipse, and rigged 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         105
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         110
(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, 
Anow of such as, for their bellies’ sake, 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!         115
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 learnt aught else the least         120
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 fleshy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,         125
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         130
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.         135
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 enamelled eyes, 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,         140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 
The glowing violet,         145
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,         150
To strew the laureate 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 hurled;         155
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 denied, 
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,         160
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 hapless youth. 
  Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,         165
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         170
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,         175
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,         180
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.         185
 
  Thus sang the uncouth Swain to the oaks and rills, 
While the still Morn went out with sandals grey: 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,         190
And now was dropt into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

When the Assault was Intended to the City
 
(November, 1642)
 
 
CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms, 
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, 
If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms         5
That call fame on such gentle acts as these, 
And he can spread thy name o’er lands and seas, 
Whatever clime the sun’s bright circle warms. 
Lift not thy spear against the Muse’s bower; 
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare         10
The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
Went to the ground; and the repeated air 
Of sad Electra’s Poet had the power 
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

To a Virtuous Young Lady
 
(1644)
 
 
LADY! that in the prime of earliest youth 
Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, 
And with those few art eminently seen, 
That labour up the Hill of Heavenly Truth, 
The better part with Mary and with Ruth         5
Chosen thou hast, and they that overween, 
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends 
To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light.         10
And Hope that reaps not shame; therefore be sure, 
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends 
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, 
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 
 

To the Lady Margaret Ley
 
(1644–5)
 
 
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, one President 
  Of England’s Council and her Treasury, 
  Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee, 
  And left them both, more in himself content, 
Till the sad breaking of that Parliament         5
  Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
  At Chæronea, fatal to liberty, 
  Killed with report that old man eloquent, 
Though later born than to have known the days 
  Wherein your father flourished, yet by you,         10
  Madam, methinks I see him living yet: 
So well your words his noble virtues praise 
  That all both judge you to relate them true 
  And to possess them, honoured Margaret.

On the Detraction which Followed upon my Writing Certain Treatises
 
(1645–6)
 
 
A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon, 
  And woven close, both matter, form, and style; 
  The subject new: it walked the town a while, 
  Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on. 
Cries the stall-reader, “Bless us! what a word on         5
  A title-page is this!; and some in file 
  Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile— 
  End Green. Why, is it harder, sirs, than Gordon, 
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? 
  Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek         10
  That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. 
Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, 
  Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, 
  When thou taught’st Cambridge and King Edward Greek

On the Same
 
(1645–6)
 
 
I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs 
  By the known rules of ancient liberty, 
  When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
  Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs; 
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs         5
  Railed at Latona’s twin-born progeny, 
  Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. 
  But this is got by casting pearl to hogs, 
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, 
  And still revolt when Truth would set them free.         10
  Licence they mean when they cry Liberty; 
For who loves that must first be wise and good: 
  But from that mark how far they rove we see, 
  For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.

 
On the New Forcers of Conscience under the Long Parliament
 
(1646)
 
 
BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord, 
  And with stiff vows renounced his Liturgy, 
  To seize the widowed whore Plurality, 
  From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, 
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword         5
  To force our consciences that Christ set free, 
  And ride us with a Classic Hierarchy, 
  Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rutherford? 
Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent, 
  Would have been held in high esteem with Paul         10
  Must now be named and printed heretics 
By shallow Edwards and Scotch What-d’ye-call! 
  But we do hope to find out all your tricks, 
  Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent, 
        That so the Parliament         15
May with their wholesome and preventive shears 
Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears, 
        And succour our just fears, 
When they shall read this clearly in your charge: 
New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.         20
 

 
To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs
 
(1646)
 
 
HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song 
  First taught our English music how to span 
  Words with just note and accent, not to scan 
  With Midas’ ears, committing short and long, 
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,         5
  With praise enough for Envy to look wan; 
  To after age thou shalt be writ the man 
  That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. 
Thou honour’st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing 
  To honour thee, the priest of Phœbus’ quire,         10
  That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story. 
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher 
  Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing, 
  Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

On the Religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thomson, my Christian Friend, deceased Dec. 16, 1646
 
(1646)
 
 
WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
  Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
  Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
  Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. 
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,         5
  Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; 
  But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, 
  Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. 
Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best 
  Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams         10
  And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 
And speak the truth of thee on glorious themes 
  Before the Judge; who henceforth bid thee rest, 
  And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

On the Lord General Fairfax at the Siege of Colchester
 
(1648)
 
 
FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, 
  Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, 
  And all her jealous monarchs with amaze, 
  And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings, 
Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings         5
  Victory home, though new rebellions raise 
  Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays 
  Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. 
O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand 
  (For what can war but endless war still breed?)         10
  Till truth and right from violence be freed, 
And public faith cleared from the shameful brand 
  Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, 
  While Avarice and Rapine share the land.