To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? 70 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, 75 Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 80 Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, 85 Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." That strain I heard was of a higher mood. And listens to the Herald of the Sea, 90 That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings 95 They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 100 It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 105 Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 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; 110 Two massy keys he bore of metals twain He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:- Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake, Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how 120 A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 125 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 wolf with privy paw, Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 130 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 135 Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 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, 140 That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 145 The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 150 And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 155 Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; 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, 160 Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 165 Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 170 And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, 180 That sing, and singing in their glory move, Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray: At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: SONNET ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE (1631) How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, But my late spring no bud nor blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 5 Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even 10 To that same lot, however mean or high, Towards which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. SONNET ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT (1655) Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS (From Poems, etc., 1673. Written cir. 1655 ?) When I consider how my light is spent 5 10 |