O fountain Arethuse, and thou, honour'd flood,

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood!

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the herald of the sea

That came in Neptune's plea :

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds,

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged winds

That blows from off each beaked promontory;

They knew not of his story:

And sage Hippotades their answer brings;

"That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,

"The air was calm, and on the level brine

"Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.

"It was that fatal and perfidious bark

E

"Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, "That sunk so low that sacred head of thine."

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flow'r inscribed with woe. Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?

The pilot of the Galiléan lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake ;

How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

Enough of such as for their bellies sake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?

Of other care they little reckoning make,

Than how to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest: [hold
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!
What recks it them? what need they? they are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said:

But that two-handed engine at the door

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Return Alphèus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears:

Bid Amarantus all his beauty shed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

To strow 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'er thy bones are hurled,
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 denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellèrus old,

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;