Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she
Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
But what doth life when most serene afford
Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?
Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:
So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break
Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.
I heard last May—and May is still high Spring—
The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.
The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.
And all the west like silver shin'd; not one
Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain
The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.
But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd
To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;
The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,
Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.
I saw her next day on her last cold bed:
And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!
Damon.
So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,
At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.
Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,
And stay not here to wear the soil of time;
While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,
To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.
Menalcas.
Souls need not time. The early forward things
Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.
Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,
To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.
And is't not just to leave those to the night
That madly hate and persecute the light?
Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,
And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?
Damon.
The punishment still manifests the sin,
As outward signs show the disease within.
While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,
And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.
So where swift Isca from our lofty hills
With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills
A wider channel, like some great port-vein
With large rich streams to fill the humble plain:
I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,
Projected far, a goodly shelter made;
And from the top with thick diffusèd boughs
In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.
Here many garlands won at roundel-lays
Old shepherds hung up in those happy days
With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress
Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless.
And many times had old Amphion made
His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:
His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white
As those the welkin shows in moonshine night.
Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I
In dark records and numbers nobly high,
The visions of our black, but brightest bard
From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;
With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,
And riddles more, which future time must own:
While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made
Music as solemn as the song and shade.
But the curs'd owner from the trembling top
To the firm brink did all those branches lop;
And in one hour what many years had bred,
The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.
The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,
While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;
But nature, which—like virtue—scorns to yield,
Brought new recruits and succours to the field;
For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,
And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;
Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,
There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.
Menalcas.
So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light
When put out gains a value from the night.
How glad are we, when but one twinkling star
Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:
And Providence was kind, that order'd this
To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:
Nor is it so till this short life be done,
But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.