Lyra Heroica Part 3

The garlands wither on their brow-- Then boast no more your mighty deeds!

Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds!

All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

_Shirley._

XI

LYCIDAS

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string; Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse: So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And, as he pa.s.ses, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!

For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return!

Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn.

The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays, As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the s.h.a.ggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream 'Had ye been there,' ... for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian sh.o.r.e?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of n.o.ble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,'

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he p.r.o.nounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.'

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured 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 asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?

And questioned every gust of rugged wings 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, Built in the eclipse and rigged 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 flower inscribed with woe.

'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?'

Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake; Two ma.s.sy 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, Enow 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; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman'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, swoln 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, Alpheus, 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 honeyed 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 freaked 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 Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hea.r.s.e where Lycid lies.

For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; Ay me! whilst thee the sh.o.r.es 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 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 hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.

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 walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the sh.o.r.e In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

_Milton._

XII

ARMS AND THE MUSE

WHEN THE a.s.sAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITY

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did thee ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas, Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower: The great Emanthian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground; and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

_Milton._

XIII

TO THE LORD GENERAL

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fort.i.tude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared G.o.d's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.

Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw.

_Milton._

XIV

THE LATE Ma.s.sACRE IN PIEDMONT

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the b.l.o.o.d.y Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

_Milton._

XV

ON HIS BLINDNESS