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 Neæra'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 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;
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, 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;

He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,

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65

70

75

80

85

90

They knew not of his story;

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beakèd promontory.

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,

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,

100

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,

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110

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
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

1 20

What reeks 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,

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.
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,
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,
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;

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140

145

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
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;

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
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

170

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,
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.

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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,
And now was dropt into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures now.

190

Notes on "Lycidas."-This poem is not only the greatest of our elegies, but it is also our greatest pastoral poem. Representing himself as a shepherd mourning for his comrade, Lycidas, Milton expresses his grief for the death of his friend, Edward King. General Plan of the Poem.

(1) Milton's reason for writing the poem, lines 1-14. (2) Appeal to the Muses for inspiration, lines 15-22. (3) The companionship of Milton and King given under the semblance of shepherd life, lines 23-36.

(4) Expression of sorrow over the greatness of the loss, lines 37-49.

(5) Reproof given to the nymphs for not saving Lycidas. (This

thought is a natural one at such a time)-"Why could n't something have been done to prevent it!" Lines 50-63. (6) A feeling of despondency which often comes-"What good does it do to deny one's self pleasures and spend long laborious hours in preparation for work that can never be accomplished!" Lines 64--76.

(7) The gloom dispelled by the thought that the highest fame is not of earth, but of immortal growth;-that all is not done in vain, lines 76-84.

(8) Return to the pastoral mood, which had been lost for a moment while taking up the two ideas of fame, lines 85-88. (9) Inquiry made as to the cause of the accident, lines 89-102. (Not caused by a storm.)

(10) Mourners for Lycidas:

(a) Camus-Cambridge. A loss to the University, lines 103-107.

(b) St. Peter. A loss to the Church, lines 108-112. (11) Charges brought against the false clergy. The reasons why the Church needs men like Lycidas, lines 113-131.

(12) Return to pastoral mood after this digression. Apostrophe to Alpheus to call the vales to bring flowers for the "laureate hearse" of Lycidas, lines 132-153.

(13) Lament over the fact that the body of Lycidas was not recovered, lines 154-164.

(14) Apostrophe to the shepherds to "weep no more," for, although the body has sunk low, the soul of Lycidas has "mounted high," lines 165-185.

(15) Conclusion, lines 186-193.

SUGGESTIONS TO STUDENTS

1. What were the circumstances of King's death? 2. Of Milton's writing this poem? What does Milton mean by the opening lines, "Yet once more"? Why is he reluctant to write this poem? What does he mean by plucking "with forced fingers" the "berries harsh and crude" "before the mellowing year"? What spirit does he show here? 3. What bits of information do you gather from the poem regarding the life, aspirations, and accomplishments of Edward King? 4. What is the meaning of line 14? Why the appeal to the muses?

5. Follow out the allegory of the poem, especially lines 23-36; 64–69. 6. What allusions show Milton to be a lover of classical stories? 7. What are the two kinds of fame that Milton points out? What does he think will be the true poet's reward? 8. Explain lines 73-76. Notice that the sun-god, Phœbus, who is in a position to see and know everything regarding the affairs of men, is made the speaker in lines 76-84. 9. What is meant by lines 87-88? Why should Neptune and the Herald of the Sea be concerned because of the death of Lycidas? 10. What caused the accident? 11. Why is Camus represented as being so old? So slow of movement? Why his "mantle hairy and bonnet sedge"? What two ideas is Milton consolidating in Camus? 12. What is the reason for St. Peter's interest in Lycidas? 13. What types of corrupt clergy does Milton portray? 14. Look up Ruskin's "Sesame and Lilies," 20-22, for his famous explanation of lines 109-131 of "Lycidas." Why, especially, are the false clergy "blind mouths"? 15. What fact is referred to in lines 151-164? 16. What contrast does Milton bring out between the body and the soul of Lycidas in lines 154-185? 17. Why does Milton in his conclusion, lines 186-193, change the person of the mourner from the first to the third person? 18. The last line refers to what circumstance in Milton's own life?

Most elegies are so easy to understand that, for the others given here, notes will be unnecessary. The author's emotion is the main thing. Feel as you read. Is the loss public or private, or are these reflections simply on death in general?

FROM CYMBELINE

Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

1 The student will have an added interest in "Lycidas" when he remembers that the Tuscania went down only a little over a hundred miles from where Edward King was drowned, and also that the death of Lord Kitchener, near the Orkney Islands, had many similar circumstances. See the elegy, “Kitchener," by John Helston in A Treasury of War Poetry (Clarke).