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244 POEMS.
As killing as the canker to the rofe,
Or taint worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frofl to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When firft the white-thorn blows ;
Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fliepherds ear.
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the fteep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fliaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wizard ftream:
Ah me! I fondly dream
Had ye been there : for what could that have done ?
What could the mufe herfelf that Orpheus bore,
The mufe herfelf for her inchanting fon,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lelbian fhore ?
Alas! what boots it with inceflant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And ftricfly meditate the thanklefs mufe?
Were it not better done as others ufe,
To fport with Amaryllis in the fliade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear fpi'rit doth raife
(That laft infirmity of noble mind)
To fcom delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burft out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,