JOHN MILTON

The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,

The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,

The glowing Violet.

The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.

With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears :

Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And DafFadillies fill their cups with tears,

To strew the Laureat Herse 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 ere thy bones are hurld,

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 deny'd,

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 haples youth.

Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, 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 Lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,

�� �