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letra de lycidas - john eaton

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 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 thе lofty rhyme
he must not float upon his wat’ry bier
unwеpt, 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 destin’d urn
and as he passes turn
and bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!

for we were nurs’d 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 h-rn
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;
and old damætas 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 k!lling as the canker to the rose
or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze
or frost to flowers that their g-y wardrobe wear
when first the white th-rn blows:
such, lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear
where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep
clos’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 sh-ggy top of mona high
nor yet where deva spreads her wizard stream
ay me! i fondly dream
had ye bin 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 neæra’s hair?
fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(that last infirmity of n0ble 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 replied, and touch’d my trembling ears;
“fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil
nor in the glistering foil
set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies
but lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
and perfect witness of all-judging jove;
as he pr-nounces lastly on each deed
of so much fame in heav’n 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 beaked 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 th’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 inscrib’d 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 spar’d 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 reck’ning 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, swoll’n 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 flow’rets 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 enamel’d eyes
that on the green turf suck the honied 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 attir’d 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
to strew the laureate he-rs- 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
visit’st 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 wat’ry 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 g*nius 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 th’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 dropp’d into the western bay;
at last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue:
to-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new

- john eaton

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