JOHN MILTON
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear 'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Towards Hcav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'Oatcn Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damretas lov'd to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Thee Shepherd, thce the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
Where were yc Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
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