The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds in the same village were united in the same studies from their infancy, and bound in the strictest friendship. Thyrsis, having gone to the city for recreation's sake, receives an account of the death of Damon. Returning home afterwards, and finding the news true, he bemoans himself and his solitary situation, in the following poem. In the appellation Damon, is understood that of Carolus Diodatus: a person descended from a family of Lucca in Italy, yet in every thing but birth an Englishman; and a youth of the most promising appearance as to wit, learning, and all other conspicuous virtues, while he lived.

Sicilian nymphs, attend my mournful claim,
And aid my sorrow, by the banks of Thame;
For whilom you o'er Bion's early hearse
Hung the choice garlands of elegiac verse,

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And to fair Hylas his last honors paid,
And soothed with tender wailings Daphne's shade.
How many sighs did weeping Thyrsis heave!
How oft awaken'd Echo from her cave!
How long with pond'ring steps he wont to rove,
And join the trickling rill, and seek the cypress grove!
His woes beginning with the dawn of light,
His woes nor ending at th' approach of night;
While Damon's ling'ring stay he frequent mourn'd,
Damon who ne'er to see his friend return'd.
And now the second harvest grac'd the plain,
And twice the barn receiv'd the golden grain,
Since rutless death laid Damon in his tomb,
Nor was kind Thyrsis (luckless) then at home;
For the sweet muse prolong'd his pleasing hours,
And long detain'd 'mid Rome's imperial tow'rs!

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But, fill'd with home his mind, again he tends
His flock neglected, and neglected friends;
And while beneath the conscious elm he lies
(Once dear retreat to his admiring eyes),
On Damon's fate he thinks: beyond control,
Tumultuous anguish rushes on his soul;
And while affection wrings his very heart,
Those simple strains he pours devoid of art.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Ah me! what Pow'rs in heav'n shall I implore,
Since from my breast its better part they tore?—
Thus dost thou leave me, Damon, thus unkind?
Ah! shall thy virtues die, nor leave behind
One lasting trace? Ah! shall my tears still flow,
Nor win thee ever from the shades below?

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But no! thou shalt not join the meaner dead,
Hermes to brighter scenes thy step shall lead;
And while he drives the humbler throng away,
Announce thy entrance in the realms of day.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Yet if no quaint wolf mark me for his prey,
Thine ashes shall not quite in death decay;
But thy fresh honour, undefil'd, appear
Bathed in the dew of a melodious tear;
And long the shepherd swains thy worth shall raise,
And join with me to celebrate thy praise.
While Faunas loves the plain, and Pales dwells
In sylvan scenes; while spotless truth excels,
And ancient faith, and minstrelsye sublime;
A generous mind, a soul without a crime,

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Can win applause and bind affection fast:
So long shall all thy matchless glories last.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Those thy rewards, thy sure rewards, shall be:
But what avails this pomp of praise to me?
Ah! who with faithful love shall now pursue
Through dang'rous paths my side; ah! who but you?
To brave the winter frost, the summer heat:
Nor think the trouble much, though tir'd thy feet,
Whether the lion's dang'rous course to fright,
Or chase the prowling wolf at dead of night.
Ah! who but you shall charm the hours along,
And lull my slumber soft with soothing song?
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”

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Whose bosom, Thyrsis, shall I now believe,
Who shall with mirth my anxious cares deceive?
Who now divert the long revolving night
With gay discourses, pregnant of delight;
While the dry faggot crackles in the blaze,
And the nut bounds, or into coal decays?
The winds meanwhile their boisterous revels keep,
And through the elm's ærial branches sweep.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Or in the sultry summer's burning noon,
When Pan in beechen bow'r defies the sun;
When naiad-nymphs in coral caves below
Bid in sweet lapse their warbling waters flow;
When shepherds hide beneath the arching glade;
And the tir'd lab'rer sleeps, supinely laid;

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Then who thy solace bland can e'er supply,
With friendship's candid lip and sparkling eye?
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Now solitary, silent, slow, I stray
Where thickest umbrage crowns the shelter'd way;
Here I await calm evening's sober hour,
For the rain rushes in a rattling show'r,
And the low sullen blasts of Eurus move
The tremulous twilight of the wavy grove.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Ah, how my meeds, so till'd, so fresh before,
With noxious noisome herbs are mantled o'er!
And ev'n my lofty quicksets seeth'd remain,
For want of kindly aid from genial rain:

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The grape unweeded sinks, the myrtle dies,
And the flocks turn to me their meagre eyes.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
To the tall hazels Tit'rus calls me hence;
Alphesibœus to yon ashen fence;
But Ægon becks me to the willow'd bank,
And fair Amyntas to the streamlets dank;
‘Here cooling riv'lets well, here mossy seats;
‘The dumb they speak to, from their gay retreats.”
I fly disconsolate, and rather long
To sing to the low shrubs my plaintive song.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”

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There Mopsus summons: (Mopsus can divine
The talk of birds, and tell each starry sign.)
He met me haply, and half-trembling said,
‘What dread disorder doth thy peace invade?
‘Say, does disastrous love thy quiet mar,
‘Or pestilence of some malignant star?
‘For shepherds oft have felt its horrid pow'r,
‘And a cold leaden weight their vital-blood devour.”
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
The virgins wonder too; and ask my ail,
And what sad glooms o'er temper's warmth prevail.
‘Not thus,’ (they cry) ‘thy front would erst appear:
‘Why those mute lips, fierce eyes, and looks severe!

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‘Whatever mistress does thy rest destroy,
‘Claims frolick mirth, and love, and sprightly joy.’
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Hyas and Dryope and Aegle fair,
Skill'd to attune the lyre to melting air,
Tempting approach'd, but tempted all in vain;
And Cloris too, the brightest of the plain.
No fond caresses, no love-darting eyes,
Solace my heart, or bid new flames arise.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Alas, how like me once the heifers play;
How, join'd in frolic gambol, waste the day!
The savage wolves alike in flocks combine,
T' attack the mighty fold, and slay our kine;

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The wild ass too his rugged mates will join;
And the grim ocean owns the law divine,
What time great Proteus on the sandy shore
Summons his scaly herds, and counts their numbers o'er;
The flutt'ring sparrow feels a mutual tie,
And if the pouncing kite descend from high
To tear her dear companion from her breast,
She seeks another choice, and gains her usual rest.
But human kind, a hard unfeeling race,
Can ne'er in alien bosoms friendship place;
Or if some gentle youth the golden chain
Would wish to wear, and share the pleasing pain,
Millions among he scarce one friend will gain.

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Should the kind Fates his fav'rite pray'r approve,
And grant an equal worthy of his love,
Ah, witless youth! when purest flames arise,
They stamp eternal woe, and lo! his partner dies.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
What frenzy forc'd me from his dearest side,
While snowy Alps and tow'ring cliffs subside?
Why did I, fool, prefer the Latian plains
To the blest converse of the pride of swains?
Did I, ingrate, such mountains interpose!
Ah, cruel hap! I left thy cot for those:
Else had I press'd thy cold and withering hand,
Thine eyes compos'd, and caught thy last command;

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While the sad farewels rent my very heart,
And mindful of our love thou didst to heav'n depart.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
Oh that I was serene as erst, when o'er
The banks I walk'd of Arno's tuneful shore;
And sought his poplar-bows, of verdure gay,
Where purple vi'lets deck the painted way!
And there I too could hear Monalca's sage,
Contend with Lyciad in poetic rage:
Though all unmeet, myself would take the reed,
And haply with thy partial ear succeed;

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Full many meeds of thine my stores contain—
Goblets, and pipes, and flutes of boxen grain.
Both Dati and Francinus wont to raise
Thy name, and teach the echoing wood our praise:
And they were swains of note; for ev'ry grace
Famed, and descended from a Lydian race.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your helpless master has no time for you.”
Beneath the dewing moon I oft have cried,
While you lay senseless by the cypress' side,
‘Now careful Damon pens the guarded fold;
‘Now songs of his are sung, or tales are told:
‘Now, for the hare the floating net he draws,
‘Now twists the slender twig for secret cause:’

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And dreams which I pourtray'd in times of yore,
Now do I still present my sight before.
‘Where art thou, Damon? what delays thee so?
‘Beneath yon shade we'll bank the summer glow;
‘We'll stretch our limbs by Colnus' limpid rill,
‘Or by Cassibelaunus' cloud-capt hill:
‘You will lay ope your scrip, of magic pow'r,
‘And tell the several virtues of each flow'r:
‘Whether the hellebore, or crocus small,
‘Or leaf of hyacinth, excel at med'cine's call.’
Ah! perish potent herbs, and healing flow'r;
None after thee, their uses can explore.

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My flute is broken too, uncouth the sound;
And rude, I ween: yet list, ye woodlands round.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.
I too will sing the Phrygian prows that sought
The British shore; and lift my humbler thought
To ancient Imogen's illustrious line,
Brennus, Arviragus, and old Beline.
Then the Armorian colony I chose,
And Iogerne's more mysterious woes;

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And Merlin's stratagems and fell alarms,
Disguis'd and hid beneath Gorloran arms.
Oh, would my life but last, thou, flute, should lie
On yonder knotty pine, and greet no more mine eye;
Or, swell'd with some Britannic theme renown'd,
Thy martial stops would Arthur's actions sound.
What then? a swain could ill attempt the task;
No other fame, no other praise I ask
(Unknown, unheeded, to each following age,
I care not who will read my past'ral page)

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If Usa golden-hair'd, Alaunus too,
Abra, and Trent emerging to the view,
If Thames 'bove all esteem'd, and the far wave
Of Orcades, my floating song will save.
“My unfed flocks, go home, ye straggling few;
Your hapless master has no time for you.”
For thee I kept beneath the laurel-shade,
Two graven bowls, with nicest efforts made:
Manso the great the precious presents gave;
Manso the learn'd, the courteous, and the brave.
Around the outside various landscapes shine,
Of workmanship complete, and bold design:

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Here, in the middle, rolls the ruddy tide,
And sweet Arabia stands in blooming pride:
The phœnix, bird divine, of varied plume,
Doth here new vigour from the flames assume;
And as the rosy clouds of morning rise,
Aurora's blush with piercing glance espies:
On th' other part, the valves of heav'n unbar,
The ceilings glitter speck'd with many a star,
And (strange) the Gods appear; here Cupid darts
His diamond arrows at immortal hearts.

“Here also, Damon, you reside; elsewhere
Your soft simplicity, and truth sincere:

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For sure Lethean glooms could ne'er acquire
Thy generous spirit, and thy soul of fire.
Weep we no more! our tears are now profane:
Lo! Damon treads the pure ethereal plain;
And walks the rainbow-floors, and converse high
Holds with departed heroes in the sky;
Imbibes refreshing air and softest sleep,
And quaffs ambrosian joys with ruby lip.
Oh! grant our pray'rs, and lend a fav'ring ear,
Whether our mortal Damon's name you hear,
Or Diodoti (by which title they
Of elements supreme thy worth display).
Type of my virgin youth, and rising age,
Which wedded pleasures never could engage,

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Lo! thy white front a radiant circlet twines,
And in thy hand the holy palm-tree shines.
Thou then shalt join the full seraphic choir,
Thy voice attemper'd to the silver lyre;
And in melodious concert hymn the praise
Of hallowed Sion, crown'd with lasting rays.”

It is rather curious to observe that the poet has, in his translation, overlooked the following lines:

Quamquam etiam vestri nunquam meminisse pigebit,
Pastores Thusci, Musis operata juventus,
Hic Charis, atque Lepos; et Thuscus tu quoque Damon,
Antiquâ genus unde petis Lucumonis ab urbe.

Two friends of Milton.

The river Colne.

The town of St. Albans.

The landing of the Trojans in England under Brutus. Brutus married Imogen, the daughter of a Grecian king, from whose bondage he had delivered his countrymen. Brennus and Belinus were the sons of Molutius Dunwallo, by some writers called the first king of Britain. Arviragus, the son of Cunobelin, conquered the Roman general Claudius.

The Britons are said to have retired to Armorica in Bretagne, when they fled from the Saxons. Iogerne was the wife of Gorlois prince of Cornwal. Merlin, the ancient British enchanter, transformed Uther Pendragon into Gorlois; by which artifice Uther had access to the bed of Iogerne, and thus became the father of King Arthur.

The river Ouse.

The Humber.

The name of three rivers in England; the Alain, Alende, and Camlan.