A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

Sorrowing I catch the reed, and call the Muse;
If yet a Muse on Britain's plain abide,
Since rapt Musæus tun'd his parting strain:
With him they liv'd, with him perchance they dy'd.
For who e'er since their virgin train espy'd,
Or on the banks of Thames, or that mild plain,
Where Isis sparkles to the sunny ray?
Or have they deign'd to play,
Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale,
Feeding each white pink, and each daisie pied,
That mingling paint his rushy-fringed side?

304

Yet ah! celestial maids, ye are not dead;
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die:
And well I ween, ye cannot quite be fled,
Ere ye entune his mournful elegy.
Stay then awhile, O stay, ye fleeting fair;
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,
Nor Thespia's shade; till your harmonious teen
Be grateful pour'd on some slow-ditted air,
Such tribute paid, again ye may repair
To what lov'd haunt you whilom did erect;
Whether Lycæus, or that mountain fair
Trim Mænelaus, with piny verdure deck'd.
But now it boots you not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to chuse,
Or where mild Ladon's swelling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,
And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join
Our sad society, and passing mourn,
Letting cold tears bedew his silver urn.
And, when the poet's wither'd grot he laves,
His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,
But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the poet rous'd his charmed waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strains of love.
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamefome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetick woe.

305

Can I forget, how erst his osiers made
Sad sullen musick, as bleak Eurus fann'd?
Can I forget, how gloom'd yon laureat shade,
Ere death remorseless wav'd his ebon wand?
How, midst yon grot, each silver-trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;
While as the coral roof did softly ring
Reponsive to their sweetly-doleful song?
Meanwhile all pale th'expiring poet laid,
And sunk his aweful head,
While vocal shadows pleasing dreams prolong:
For so, his sick'ning spirits to release,
They pour'd the balm of visionary peace.

First, sent from Cam's fair banks, like Palmer old,
Came Tityrus slow, with head all silver'd o'er,
And in his hand an oaken crook he bore,
And thus in antique guise short talk did hold.
“Grete clerk of Fame' is house, whose excellence
“Maie wele befitt thilk place of eminence,
“Mickle of wele betide thy houres last,
“For mich gode wirkè to me don and past.
“For syn the daies whereas my lyre ben strongen,
“And deftly many a mery laie I songen,
“Old Time, which alle things don maliciously,
“Gnawen with rusty tooth continually,

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“Gnattrid my lines, that they all cancrid ben,
“Till at the last thou smoothen 'hem hast again;
“Sithence full semely gliden my rhymes rude,
“As, (if fitteth thilk similitude)
“Whannè shallow brooke yrenneth hobling on,
“Ovir rough stones it maken full rough song:
“But, them stones removen, this lite rivere
“Stealen forth by, making pleasant murmere:
“So my sely rhymes, whoso may them note,
“Thou maken everichone to ren right sote;
“And in my verse entuneth so fetisely,
“That men sayen I make trewe melody,
“And speaken every dele to myne honoure,
“Mich wele, grete clerk, betide thy parting houre!”

i. e. Chaucer, a name frequently given him by Spenser. Vide Shep. Cal. Ecl. 2. 6. 12. and elsewhere.

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