The Grecian Story Being an Historical Poem, in Five Books. To which is Annex'd The Grove: Consisting of Divers Shorter Poems upon several Subjects. By J. H. [i.e. John Harington] |
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The fair, young Shepherdess; her Funeral also.
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 | The Grecian Story |  |
The fair, young Shepherdess; her Funeral also.
Is any Pastor's Ear so deaf to Fame,That has not heard of fair Solvandræ's Name?
So us'd to th' bleating Noys, that Funeral-Knell,
(Which groan'd this Nymph to Earth, did Hearts congeal)
Nere mention'd was; thus far more happy, free,
Since ignorant o'th' common Misery;
Arcadia's Loss: the Sun with haste was gone
From her black Funerals, and Night came on
In Sables clad. O, what new-raised Train
Of mournful Ghosts, as 'twere, then trod the Plain!
Whose ceremonious Form that Grief compriz'd,
As each their own near Fun'ral solemniz'd.
Death's March it seem'd; first went young Swains, by pairs,
All crown'd with Cypress-branch, as Usherers
To th' solemn Herse; four next the same, that led,
Shew'd painted Shields, where drawn on Sable Bed
Young, pale, dead Virgin lay, white Shroud did wear
For Bridal Cloaths bare Face beheld, howe're
(Bounteous even then) by Death's black Arms imbrac'd,
And on the Top, white Characters was plac'd,
This must my Brides-groom prove: with Sadness so
All pass'd along. Behind the Horse did go
A single Swain, what mournful Tread! sad Glance!
True Bulk of Wretchedness, whose Countenance
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Sigh-storm did breath, whilst Cheeks bedrench'd (their Shore)
His Torrent eyes; transcendent thus was found,
Surpass'd in Grief his Hat did mix'd surround
Small Willow, Cypress-branch, writ largely above,
Black Characters, Death does my Rival prove.
Then came th' whole Virgin-Train, white Skarfs did wear,
Part veil'd like clouded Stars, while Torch-light there
Caus'd dismal Noon. Thus all did softly trace
To th' last, retiring Cell, most loathsome place
Where they should leave their slumbring Nymph behind;
Earth-Chamber 'twas, which near transform'd, half blind
That Youth beholds: Never spake Sorrow more
Then silent now, what diff'rent Passions store!
Here Sighs, there Tears, pale Cheeks, all making one
Consort in Grief; his part excell'd alone.
They view'd their utmost round, till lost the Sight
With whom their Eyes seem'd as 'twere bury'd quite,
That way t'enjoy; with solemn thoughtful Muse,
Whilst churlish Clods and cold seem'd there t'abuse
That gallant Form, which, lately though more nice,
Complain'd not now; by Death intranced lies:
Curtains being drawn, all clos'd, ne're daintier Frame
Was lodg'd in simple Earth, their Tongues proclaim.
| The Grecian Story | |