Classic Poem

The morning now in colours richly dight
Stepp'd o'er the Eastern thresholds, and no lad
That joy'd to see his pastures freshly clad,
But for the holy rites himself address'd
With necessaries proper to that feast.
The altars everywhere now smoking be
With bean-stalks, savin, laurel, rosemary,
Their cakes of grummell-seed they did prefer,
And pails of milk in sacrifice to her.
Then hymns of praise they all devoutly sung
In those Palilia for increase of young.
But ere the ceremonies were half past
One of their boys came down the hill in haste,
And told them Limos was among their sheep;
That he, his fellows, nor their dogs could keep
The rav'ner from their flocks; great store were kill'd,
Whose blood he suck'd, and yet his paunch not fill'd.
O hasten then away! for in an hour
He will the chiefest of your fold devour.
With this most ran (leaving behind some few
To finish what was to fair Pales due),
And as they had ascended up the hill,
Limos they met, with no mean pace and skill
Following a well-fed lamb; with many a shout
They then pursu'd him all the plain about.
And either with fore-laying of his way,
Or he full gorg'd ran not so swift as they,
Before he could recover down the strand,
No swain but on him had a fasten'd hand.
Rejoicing then (the worst wolf to their flock
Lay in their powers), they bound him to a rock
With chains ta'en from the plough, and leaving him
Return'd back to their feast. His eyes late dim
Now sparkle forth in flames, he grinds his teeth,
And strives to catch at everything he seeth;
But to no purpose: all the hope of food
Was ta'en away; his little flesh, less blood,
He suck'd and tore at last, and that denied,
With fearful shrieks most miserably died.
Unfortunate Marina, thou art free
From his jaws now, though not from misery.
Within the cave thou likely art to pine,
If (O may never) fail a help divine,
And though such aid thy wants do still supply,
Yet in a prison thou must ever lie.
But Heav'n, that fed thee, will not long defer
To send thee thither some deliverer:
For than to spend thy sighs there to the main
Thou fitter wert to honour Thetis' train:
Who so far now with her harmonious crew
Scour'd through the seas (O who yet ever knew
So rare a concert?) she had left behind
The Kentish, Sussex shores, the Isle assigned
To brave Vespasian's conquest, and was come
Where the shrill trumpet and the rattling drum
Made the waves tremble (ere befell this chance)
And to no softer music us'd to dance.
Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot
Whose equal all the world affordeth not!
Show me who can so many crystal rills,
Such sweet-cloth'd valleys or aspiring hills;
Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;
Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;
And if the earth can show the like again,
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
Time never can produce men to o'ertake
The fames of Grenville, Davies, Gilbert, Drake,
Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more
That by their power made the Devonian shore
Mock the proud Tagus; for whose richest spoil
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soil
Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost
By winning this, though all the rest were lost.
As oft the sea-nymphs on her strand have set,
Learning of fishermen to knit a net,
Wherein to wind up their dishevell'd hairs,
They have beheld the frolic mariners
For exercise (got early from their beds)
Pitch bars of silver, and cast golden sleds,
At Exe a lovely nymph with Thetis met:
She singing came, and was all round beset
With other wat'ry powers, which by her song
She had allur'd to float with her along.
The lay she chanted she had learn'd of yore,
Taught by a skilful swain, who on her shore
Fed his fair flock: a work renown'd as far
As his brave subject of the Trojan war.
When she had done, a pretty shepherd's boy
That from the near Downs came (though he small joy
Took in his tuneful reed, since dire neglect
Crept to the breast of her he did affect,
And that an ever-busy-watchful eye
Stood as a bar to his felicity),
Being with great entreaties of the swains,
And by the fair queen of the liquid plains
Woo'd to his pipe, and bade to lay aside
All troubled thoughts, as others at that tide,
And that he now some merry note should raise,
To equal others which had sung their lays:
He shook his head, and knowing that his tongue
Could not belie his heart, thus sadly sung:

As new-born babes salute their ages' morn
With cries unto their woful mother hurl'd:
My infant Muse, that was but lately born,
Began with wat'ry eyes to woo the world.
She knows not how to speak, and therefore weeps
Her woe's excess,
And strives to move the heart that senseless sleeps,
To heaviness;
Her eyes enveil'd with sorrow's clouds
Scarce see the light,
Disdain hath wrapt her in the shrouds
Of loathed night.
How should she move then her grief-laden wing,
Or leave my sad complaints, and pæans sing?
Six Pleiads live in light, in darkness one.
Sing, mirthful swains, but let me sigh alone.

It is enough that I in silence sit,
And bend my skill to learn your lays aright;
Nor strive with you in ready strains of wit,
Nor move my hearers with so true delight.
But if for heavy plaints and notes of woe
Your ears are prest;
No shepherd lives that can my pipe outgo
In such unrest.
I have not known so many years
As chances wrong,
Nor have they known more floods of tears
From one so young.
Fain would I tune to please as others do,
Were't not for feigning song and numbers too.
Then (since not fitting now are songs of moan)
Sing, mirthful swains, but let me sigh alone.

The nymphs that float upon these wat'ry plains
Have oft been drawn to listen to my song,
And sirens left to tune dissembling strains
In true bewailing of my sorrows long.
Upon the waves of late a silver swan
By me did ride;
And thrilled with my woes forthwith began
To sing, and died.
Yet where they should, they cannot move.
O hapless verse!
That fitter than to win a love
Art for a hearse.
Henceforward silent be; and ye my cares
Be known but to myself, or who despairs;
Since pity now lies turned to a stone.
Sing, mirthful swains, but let me sigh alone.

The fitting accent of his mournful lay
So pleas'd the pow'rful Lady of the Sea,
That she entreated him to sing again;
And he obeying tun'd this second strain:

Born to no other comfort than my tears,
Yet robb'd of them by griefs too inly deep,
I cannot rightly wail my hapless years,
Nor move a passion that for me might weep.
Nature, alas! too short hath knit
My tongue to reach my woe:
Nor have I skill sad notes to fit
That might my sorrow show.
And to increase my torments' ceaseless sting,
There's no way left to show my pains,
But by my pen in mournful strains,
Which others may perhaps take joy to sing.