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*MUSEU S.

A MONODY.

SORROWING I catch the reed, and call the muse; If yet a muse on Britain's plain abide,

Since rapt Musæus tun'd his parting strain : With him they liv'd, with him perchance they

dy'd.

For who e'er since their virgin charms espy'd,
Or on the banks of Thames, or met their train,
Where Isis sparkles to the sunny ray?
Or have they deign'd to play,

Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale,
Feeding each blue bell pale, and daisie pied,
That fling their fragrance round his rushy side?
Yet ah! ye are not dead, celestial Maids;
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:

Nor is it meet ye fly these pensive glades,
E'er round his laureat hearse ye heave the sigh.
Stay then awhile, O stay, ye fleeting fair;
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,

Nor Thespia's grove; till with harmonious teen

* Mr. Pope died in the year 1744; this Poem was then written, and published first in the year 1747.

B

Ye sooth his shade, and slowly-dittied air.
Such tribute pour'd, again ye may repair
To what lov'd haunt ye whilom did elect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair
Trim Mænalus, with piny verdure deck'd.
But now it boots ye not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to choose,
Or where mild Ladon's welling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,

And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join
Our sad society, and passing mourn,

The tears fast-trickling o'er his silver urn..
And, when the Poet's widow'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks, shall shake, his head shall
bow,

His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs słow.
For oft the mighty Master rous'd his waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strain of love :
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.
Say first, Sicilian Muse,

For, with thy sisters, thou didst weeping stand.
In silent circle at the solemn scene,

When Death approach'd, and wav'd his ebon wand,

Say how each laurel droopt its with'ring green? How, in yon grot, each silver trickling spring Wander'd the shelly channels all among; While as the coral roof did softly ring Responsive to their sweetly-doleful song.

Meanwhile all pale th' expiring Poet laid,
And sunk his awful head,

While vocal shadows pleasing dreams prolong;
For so, his sick'ning spirits to release,

They pour'd the balm of visionary peace.

First, sent from Cam's fair banks, like Palmer old,

Came * Tityrus slow, with head all silver'd o'er, And in his hand an oaken crook he bore,

And thus in antique guise short talk did hold. "Grete clerk of Fame' is house, whose excellence "Maie wele befitt thilk place of eminence, "Mickle of wele betide thy houres last, "For mich gode wirkè to me don and past. "For syn the days whereas my lyre ben strongen, "And deftly many a mery laie I songen, "Old Time, which alle things don maliciously "Gnawen with rusty tooth continually,

"Gnattrid my lines, that they all cancrid ben, "Till at the last thou smoothen 'hem hast again; «Sithence full semely gliden my rymes rude, "As, (if fitteth thilk similitude)

"Whannè shallow brooke yrenneth hobling on, "Ovir rough stones it makith full rough song; "But, them stones removen, this lite rivere "Stealith forth by, making plesaunt murmere : "So my sely rymes, whoso may them note, "Thou makist everichone to ren right sote; "And in thy verse entunist so fetisely, “That men sayen I make trewe melody,

*Came Tityrus, &c.] i. e. Chaucer, a name frequently given him by Spenser. See Shep. Cal. Ecl. 2, 6, 12, and elsewhere.

"And speaken every dele to myne honoure. "Mich wele, grete clerk, betide thy parting houre!"

He ceas'd his homely rhyme.

When Colin Clout, Eliza's shepherd swain,
The blithest lad that ever pip'd on plain,

Came with his reed soft-warbling on the way,
And thrice he bow'd his head with motion mild,
And thus his gliding numbers gan essay.

"Ah! luckless swain, alas! how art thou lorn,

"Who once, like me, could'st frame thy pipe to play

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Shepherds devise, and chear the ling'ring

morn:

"Ne bush, ne breere, but learnt thy roundelay. "Ah plight too sore such worth to equal right! "Ah worth too high to meet such piteous plight!

"But I nought strive, poor Colin, to compare
My Hobbin's or my Thenot's rustic skill
"To thy deft swains, whose dapper ditties

rare

Surpass ought else of quaintest shepherd's quill.

*Colin Clout.] i. e. Spenser, which name he gives himself throughout his works.

The two first stanzas of this speech, as they relate to Pastoral, are written in the measure which Spenser uses in the first eclogue of the Shepherd's Calendar; the rest, where he speaks of Fable, are in the stanza of the FaeryQueen.

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