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, woeful 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 walk'd 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 for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,

And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

HENRY WOTTON.

(1568-1639.)

CIV. ON A BANK AS I SAT A-FISHING.

From the Reliquiae Wottonianae (1651), in which were printed some poems by Wotton and others, found amongst his papers at his death. These lines are signed H. W. They are quoted in Walton's Compleat Angler, and are said to have been written when Wotton was "beyond seventy years of age", i.e. in 1638-9.

ND now all nature seem'd in love;

AND

The lusty sap began to move;

New juice did stir the embracing vines
And birds had drawn their valentines;
The jealous trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly.

There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.

Already were the eaves possess'd
With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest:
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice.

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubb'd pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes a sillabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;

And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all look'd gay, all full of cheer,
To welcome the new liveried year.

cv. A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S
RECREATIONS

This is in the Reliquiae Wottonianae, but signed Ignoto. It is quoted in Walton's Compleat Angier, as "doubtless made either by [Sir H. Wotton] or by a lover of angling".

QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts!

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,

Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery,

And sorrows only real be!

Fly from our country pastimes! fly,
Sad troop of human misery!

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty!

Peace, and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers,

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may

shake,

But blustering care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance

But of our kids, that frisk and prance:

Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one the other;

Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too-too hasty Fates;

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which, worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook:

Nor envy, unless among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek;

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;
And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest, silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these
mountains,

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains!
Which we may every year

Find when we come a-fishing here.

ROBERT HERRICK.

(1594-1674.)

CVI. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.

This and the four following pieces are taken from the volume called Hesperides (1648), in which all Herrick's verse, secular and divine, first appeared. They were not improbably written while the poet was vicar of Dean Prior, from 1629 to 1648. Most of his days were spent in cities, but the Hesperides show the inspiration of that country life, which he found so uncongenial, in 'loathed Devonshire'. The best modern edition of Herrick's poems is that by Mr. A. W. Pollard, in the Muses' Library.

GET up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept and bow'd towards the east
Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd;

Nay! not so much as out of bed?

When all the birds have matins said

And sung their thankful hymns, 't is sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in,

Whereas a thousand virgins on this day

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.