« PreviousContinue »
have surely seen
And Titan deemed his.
But he is gone; then inwards turn your light,
To fenny black. Hyperion great
To ashy paleness turn her!
But black beseems a mourner.
Nor see his second birth,
Than thine did his on earth.
Let not a shepherd on our hapless plains
And if a fellow swain do live
A niggard of his tears ;
To store bim, part of theirs.
But that the store I have
The debt I owe his grave.
O what is left can make me leave to moan!
Look on his sheep; alas! their master's gone.
With locked arms have vow'd our love,
(Our love, which time shall see
And grace their harmony)
Behold our flow'ry beds;
For sorrow hang their heads*.
'Tis not a cypress bough, a count'nance sad,
Although the shepherds all should strive
By yearly obsequies,
In spite of destinies,
All these, and more, may be,
My greatest loss of thee.
and violets For sorrow hang their heads.] Milton, instead of representing the vegetable creation as affected at the death of his friend, with superior judgment calls for the several flowers
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
The glowing violet,
L. 145. Milton is fanciful, yet affecting; Browne puerile and disgusting.
Cypress may fade, the countenance be chang'd,
All things th' impartial hand of Fate
Can raze out with a thought:
Which ended, turn to nought.
Of sorrow firmly stay,
Shall fan and sweep away.
Look as a sweet rose fairly budding forth
Or else her rarest smells delighting
Make her herself betray,
To pluck her thence away.
For bad he been less good,
Whereon he fairly stood.
Yet though so long he liv'd not as he might,
Whoever doth the period see
Of days by heav'n forth plotted,
That had more years allotted.
In sad tones then my verse
Shall with incessant tears
And not his want of years.
In deepest passions of my grief-swol'n breast
Is this to die? no, as a ship
Well built, with easy wind
And soonest harbour find :
Quick was his passage given,
To make them fit for heaven.
Then not for thee these briny tears are spent,
Here, where without thee all delights
Fail of their pleasing power:
Methinks no April shower
But briny tears distil,
Be honour'd by thy quill.
And ye his sheep (in token of his lack)
Yean never lamb, but be it cloth'd in black.
To carve his name upon your rind
Doth come, where his doth stand
To raze it with his hand.
No more should’st numbers move,
This said, he sigh’d, and with o’er-drowned eyes
Unto his cot with heavy pace
As ever sorrow trode,
Where mirthful swains abode;
The night he past alone;
The Shepherd's Pipe, by W. Browne,