JOHN MILTON

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear.

Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst 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, "Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel, Mean while 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 Damxtas lov'd to hear our song

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return ! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen,

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