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POEMS. 245
And flits the thin fpun life. But not the praife,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears ;
Fame is no plant that grows -on mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and fpreads aloft by thofe pure eyes,
And perfe6t witnefs of all-judging Jovej
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,
Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethufe, and thou honour'd flood,
Smooth-Aiding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And liftens to the herald of the fea
That came in Neptune's plea ;
He afk'd the waves, and afk'd the felon winds,
What hard mifhap hath doom'd this gentle fwain?
And queftion'd every guft of rugged wings
That blows from off* each beaked promontory ;
They knew not of his ftory,
And fage Hippotades their anfwer brings,
That not a blaft was from his dungeon flray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her lifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that fan^uine flow'r infcrib'd with woe.