No longer seek him east or west,

And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years

Wept he as bitter tears ! 6. Merciful God !” such was his latest prayer,

“These may she never share !” Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mold,
Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,

And 0, pray, too, for me!

The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow; I 'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I 'll sleep in Yarrow.





THE moon had climbed the highest hill

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard

Say, “Mary, weep no more for me!”

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,

When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,

When now thy waves his body cover.

Forever now, O Yarrow stream !

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale, and hollow e'e. “O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

He promised me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page,

To 'squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring, –

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow !

“Three stormy nights and stormy days

We tossed upon the raging main ; And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood,

My heart was filled with love for thee: The storm is past, and I at rest ;

So, Mary, weep no more for me !

Sweet were his words when last we met ;

My passion I as freely told him : Clasped in his arms, I little thought

That I should nevermore behold him ! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

"O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more !” Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see ; But soft the passing spirit said, “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !"


His mother from the window looked

With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walked

The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow!


Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,

In the old likeness that I knew,
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother!

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,

I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;

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Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead, etc.

The mountains now are mute : the heifers pass
Slow-wandering by, nor browse the tender grass.

See! the white moon shines on high ;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead, etc.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe :
For thee, O Bion ! in the grave laid low,
Apollo weeps : dark palls the sylvan's shroud;
Fauns ask thy wonted song, and wail aloud :
Each fountain-nymph disconsolate appears,
And all her waters turn to trickling tears : ---
Mute Echo pines the silent rocks around,
And mourns those lips that waked their sweetest


Here, upon my true-love's grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.

My love is dead, etc.

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With my hands I 'll bind the briers

Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead, etc.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heart's blood all away ;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.

My love is dead, etc.

Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe :
But retribution sure will deal the blow :
I, in this trance of grief, still drop the tear,
And mourn forever o'er thy livid bier :
O that, as Orpheus, in the days of yore,
Ulysses, or Alcides, passed before,
I could descend to Pluto's house of night,
And mark if thou wouldst Pluto's ear delight,
And listen to the song : 0 then rehearse
Some sweet Sicilian strain, bucolic verse,
To soothe the maid of Enna's vale, who sang
These Doric songs, while Ætna's upland rang.
Not unrewarded should thy ditties prove :
As the sweet harper, Orpheus, erst could move
Her breast to yield his dear departed wife,
Treading the backward road from death to life,
So should he melt to Bion's Dorian strain,
And send him joyous to his hills again.
O, could my touch command the stops like thee,
I too would seek the dead, and sing thee free !

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,

Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die ! I come ! my true love waits.

Thus the damsel spake, and died.


From the Greek of MOSCHUS,



O FOREST dells and streams! O Dorian tide!
Groan with my grief, since lovely Bion died :
Ye plants and copses, now his loss bewail :

(In memory of a young clerical friend of the poet's, drowned

A, D. 1637.)
Flowers, from your tufts a sad perfume exhale :
Anemones and roses, mournful show

YET once more, (ye laurels, and once more,
Your crimson leaves and wear a blush of woe : Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
And hyacinth, now more than ever spread I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ;
The woeful “ah,” that marks thy petaled head

And, with forced fingers rude, With lettered grief : the beauteous minstrel 's Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. dead !

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,

Compels me to disturb your season due : Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe :

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Ye nightingales, whose plaintive warblings flow Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. From the thick leaves of some embowering wood, Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Tell the sad loss to Arethusa's flood :

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. The shepherd Bion dies : with him is dead He must not float upon his watery hier The life of song : the Dorie Muse is fled.

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

Without the meed of some melodious tear. Sicilian Muses, pour the dirge of woe :

Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well The herds no more that chant melodious know : That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; No more beneath the lonely oak he sings, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. But breathes his strains to Lethe's sullen springs : Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse :

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So may some gentle Muse

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears, With lucky words favor my destined urn; And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,"' And, as he passes, turn,

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ;
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. “ Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Nor in the glistering foil
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill; Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies :
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ;
We drove afield, and both together heard As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed!”
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood,
Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds!
Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering That strain I heard was of a higher mood :

But now my oat proceeds,
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

And listens to the herald of the sea
Tempered to the oaten flute ;

That came in Neptune's plea ;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
From the glad sound would not be absent long; What hard mishap hath doomed this gentleswain ?
And old Damætas loved to hear our song. And questioned every gust of rugged wings,
But, О the heavy change now thou art gone,

That blows from off each beakèd promontory :
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! They knew not of his story;
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, | And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed :
And all their echoes, mourn.

The air was calm, and on the level brine
The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
Shall now no more be seen

It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
As killing as the canker to the rose,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
When first the white-thorn blows;

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless “Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest

pledge ?"
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? Last came, and last did go,
For neither were ye playing on the steep, The pilot of the Galilean lake :
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : He shook his mitered locks, and stern bespake :
Ay me! I fondly dream,

• How well could I have spared for thee, young Had


been there : for what could that have done? swain,
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, Enow of such, as for their hellies' sake,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold !
Whom universal nature did lament,

Of other care they little reckoning make,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how
Alas! what boots it with incessant care

to hold
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs !
Were it not better done, as others use,

What recks it them? What need they? They are
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

sped ; Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; (That last infirmity of noble minds)

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :



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Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
Daily devours apace, and nothing said :

To all that wander in that perilous flood.
But that two-handed engine at the door

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, While the still morn went out with sandals gray ;
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, He touched the tender stops of various quills,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast With eager thought warbling his Doric lay :
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use And now was dropt into the western bay :
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue :
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks ; To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes,

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, To put in words the grief I feel ;
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :

For words, like Nature, half reveal
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And half conceal the Soul within.
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
For, so to interpose a little ease,

A use in measured language lies;
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ;

The sad mechanic exercise,
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.



In words, like weeds, I 'll wrap me o'er,

Like coarsest clothes against the cold ;

But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.


FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore

Sailest the placid ocean-plains

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er !

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth :
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more ;
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky :
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the

waves ;
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

So draw him home to those that mourn

In vain ; a favorable speed

Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead Through prosperous floods his holy urn !

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright

As our pure love, through early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks !

Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love ;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see

Till all my widowed race be run ;

Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me!

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