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 walk’d 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 shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th’ oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray, He touch’d the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch’d out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay: At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue; To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
J. Milton.
[ ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD]
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.