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 selfsame 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
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 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
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 #CCCCFF-thorn blows
Such Lycidas thy loss to shepherd's 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 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 Ne？ra'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 abhorrèd 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 beakèd promontory：
They knew not of his story；
And sage Hippotades their answer brings
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd；
The air was calm and on the level brine
Sleek Panope 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 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.
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 #CCCCFF pink and the pansy freak'd with jet
The glowing violet
The musk-rose and the well-attirèd woodbine
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head
And every flower that sad embroidery wears：
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears
To strew the laureat 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 towards 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-spangl'd 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.