Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 70

     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.

     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 watery 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 favour my destined urn:

     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 appear'd

     Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,

     We drove a-field, and both together heard

     What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

     Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

     Oft till the star that rose at evening bright

     Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.

     Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;

     Temper'd to the oaten flute,

     Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel

     From the glad sound would not be absent long;

     And old Damoetas loved 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 shepherds' ear.

       Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep

     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 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 incessant 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 the abhorréd shears

     And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"

     Phoebus replied, and touch'd 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:

     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 honour'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 mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?

     And question'd every gust of rugged wings

     That blows from off each beakéd promontory:

     They knew not of his story;

     And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,

     That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;

     The air was calm, and on the level brine

     Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.

     It was that fatal and perfidious bark

     Built in the 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 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

     (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,

     Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake

     Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!

     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 learn'd aught else the least

     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 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 wolf with privy paw

     Daily devours apace, and nothing said:

     —But that two-handed engine at the door

     Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."

       Return, Alphéus; 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.

     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 enamell'd eyes

     That on the green turf suck the honey'd 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 freak'd with jet,

     The glowing violet,

     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 daffodillies fill their cups with tears

     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 hurl'd;

     Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides

     Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide

     Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;

     Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,

     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 hapless youth!

       Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,

     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

     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 locks he laves,

     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,

     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.

       Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks 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 Doric lay:

     And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,

     And now was dropt into the western bay:

     At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:

     To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.