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Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse :
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;
And, as he passes, turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear’d Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering

wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten Aute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven

heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But, О the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn : The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless

Clos'd o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.


BORN 1611-DIED 1643.

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. TELL me not of joy! there's none Now my little sparrow's gone ;

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;

He would hang the wing a while,

Till at length he saw me smile, Lord ! how sullen he would be !

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again ;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip,
He would from my trencher feed ;

Then would hop, and then would run,

And cry philip when he'd done ; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ?

Oh! how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite;

No morn did pass,

But on my glass
He would sit, and mark, and do

What I did ; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts ?

A wound he may,

Not love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone.

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.


BORN 1612-DIED 1680.

TAE witty and learned author of Hudibras was the son of a

small farmer in Worcestershire. Butler attended Cambridge for a short time. He afterwards appears to have earned a precarious living, first as clerk to a country justice, and afterwards in the family of the Countess of Kent, where he was occasionally employed by the learned Selden, her ladyship’s steward. He afterwards went into the employment of Sir Samuel Luke, a commonwealth's man, where he saw so much of the worst side of the character of the Puritans, that it is presumed Hudibras may be dated from this residence. The first part of this remarkable poem was published after the Restoration ; the other parts at long intervals. It was quoted, recited, and constantly perused at court; but admiration was the poet's sole reward, though he was from time to time buoyed up with expectation. Butler died in Lon.

don, and was buried at the expense of a friend. As a poem, Hudibras is unique in European literature. It

possesses an excess of wit, rhymes the most original and ingenious, and the most apt and burlesque metaphors, couched in an easy, gossiping, colloquial metre; yet it would be as impossible to read Hudibras to an end at once as to dine on cayenne or pickles. It administers no food to the higher and more permanent feelings of the human mind. The moral comes to be felt to be without dignity-the wit without gaiety or relief-the story lagging and fat. Even the rhymes, amusing as they are, become, after a time, like the repetitions of a mimic, tiresome and stale. Dryden regrets that Hudibras was not written in the heroic measure, instead of the slipshod rhymes adopted. It is amusing to conceive of a Hudibras thus stilted; but the metre might perhaps have been occasionally varied with good effect, and certainly with welcome relief to the reader.



His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof,
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise.

His breeches were of rugged woollen,
And had been at the siege of Bullen ;
To old King Harry so well known,
Some writers held they were his own :
Through they were lined with many a piece
Of ammunition bread and cheese,
And fat black-puddings, proper food
For warriors that delight in blood :
For, as we said, he always chose
To carry victual in his hose,
That often tempted rats and mice
The ammunition to surprise.

His puissant sword unto his side,
Near his undaunted heart, was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both ;
In it he melted lead for bullets
To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch,
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack :
The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancour of its edge had felt;

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