To learne to mourne her loft make! No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seeft not these flocks, how fad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull found. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to fhew a heavie cheare,
What bird (I pray thee) haft thou seen, that prunes
Himselfe of late? did any cheerfull note
Come to thine eares, or gladfome fight appeare
Unto thine eies, fince that fame fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,
And teftified his grief with flowing teares?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his powre
Doth us invite to make a fad confort;
Come, let us ioyne our mournfull fong with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and forrow will enforce,
Thy voice; and eccho will our words report.
LYCON. Though my rude rymes ill with thy
verfes frame,
That others farre excell; yet will I force
My felfe to anfwere thee the best I can,
And honor my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou fit
In fecret shade or cave; vouchfafe (O Pan)
To pardon me, and hear this hard constraint
With patience while I fing, and pittie it.
And eke ye rurall Mufes, that do dwell
In these wilde woods; if ever piteous plaint
We did endite, or taught a wofull minde
With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,
Inftruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on,
And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.
COLIN. Phillifides is dead. O harmfull death, O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion,
When fhalt thou fee, emong thy fhepheards all,
Any fo fage, fo perfect?. Whom uneath
Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.
Behold the facred Pales, where with haire
Untruft the fitts, in fhade of yonder hill.
And her faire face, bent fadly downe, doth fend
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the heav'ns defpightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made fo fhort an end
Of that fame life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The Nymphs and Oreades her round about
Do fit lamenting on the graffie grene;
And with fhrill cries, beating their whiteft brefts, 65
Accufe the direfull dart that death fent out
To give the fatall stroke. The ftarres they blame,
That deafe or careleffe feeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their criftall fprings, where they wont
Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the fcorching fun.
And now the hollow caves where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banifht is the gladfome aire,
They feeke; and there in mourning fpend their
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and
And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.
LYCON. Phillifides is dead. O dolefull ryme! Why should my toong expreffe thee? who is left Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint, Lycon-unfortunate! What spitefull fate, What luckleffe deftinie, hath thee bereft Of thy chief comfort; of thy onely stay!. Where is become thy wonted happie ftate,
(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale, 85 Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne
Along the bankes of many filver streames,
Thou with him yodeft; and with him didft fcale
The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine!
Still with the Mufes fporting, while thofe beames 90
Of vertue kindled in his noble breft,
Which after did so gloriously forth shine!
But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are
All fuddeinly, and death hath them oppreft.
Loe father Neptune, with fad countenance,
How he fitts mourning on the ftrond now bare,
Yonder, where th' Ocean with his rolling waves
The white feete washeth (wailing this mifchance)
Of Dover cliffes. His facred skirt about
The fea-gods all are fet; from their moift caves 100
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and ftout,
The fruitfull Severne, with the reft are come
To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to fee
The dolefull fight, and fad pomp funerall,
Of the dead corps paffing through his kingdome.
And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown'd,
With wofull fhrikes falute him great and finall.
Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare
Narciffus, their last accents doth refownd.
COLIN. Phillifides is dead. O luckleffe age; O widow world; O brookes and fountains cleere; O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong With his fweet caroling, which could affwage The fierceft wrath of tygre or of beare : Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong Thefe thickets oft have daunft after his pipe; Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare, That oft have left your pureft cristall fprings To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe Away all griefe and forrow from your harts: Alas! who now is left that like him fings? When fhall you heare againe like harmonie? So fweet a fownd who to you now imparts? Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives The name of Stella in yonder bay tree. Happie name! happie tree! faire may you grow, And fpred your facred branch, which honor gives To famous Emperours, and Poets crowne. Unhappie flock that wander fcattred now, What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane, Forfake your food, and hang your heads adowne! For fuch a fhepheard never fhall you guide, Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane.
LYCON. Phillifides is dead. O happie fprite, 135 That now in heav'n with bleffed foules doeft bide: Looke down a while from where thou fitft above, And see how busie shepheards be to endite Sád fongs of grief, their forrowes to declare, And gratefull memory of their kynd love.
felfe with Colin, gentle fwaine,
(Whose lerned Muse thou cherisht moft whyleare,)
Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease
The inward torment and tormenting paine,
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each others forrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left defolate,
And withred graffe with cypres boughes be fpred;
Behold thefe floures which on thy grave we ftrew;
Which, faded, fhew the givers faded state,
(Though eke they fhew their fervent zeale and
pure,)
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the heav'ns for ay,
That, to thy afhes, reft they may affure :
That learnedft fhepheards honor may thy name 155
With yeerly praifes, and the Nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres;
And that for ever may endure thy fame.
COLIN. The Sun (lo !) haftned hath his face to steep
In western waves; and th' aire with ftormy showres Warnes us to drive homewards our filly fheep: Lycon, lett's rife, and take of them good keep. 162
Virtute fumma: cætera fortuna.
|