MONODY I.

MUSAEUS:

TO THE

MEMORY OF MR. FOPE.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A.

SORROWING I catch the reed, and call the Muse; If yet a Muse on Britain's plain abide,

Since rapt MUSAEUS tun'd his parting strain:
With him they liv'd, with him perchance they dy'd.
For who e'er since their virgin train espy'd,

Or on the banks of Thames, or that mild plain,
Where Isis sparkles to the sunny ray?
Or have they deign'd to play,

Where Camus winds along his broider'd vale,
Feeding each white pink, and each daisy pied,
That mingling paint his rushy-fringed side?

Yet ah! celestial maids, ye are not dead;
Immortal as ye are, ye may not die :
And well I ween, ye cannot quite be fled,
Ere ye entune his mournful elegy.

Stay then awhile, O stay, ye fleeting fair;
Revisit yet, nor hallow'd Hippocrene,

Nor Thespia's shade; 'till your harmonious teen
Be grateful pour'd on some slow-ditted air.
Such tribute paid, again ye may repair

20

To what lov'd haunt you whilom did elect;
Whether Lycaeus, or that mountain fair
Trim Maenelaus, with piny verdure deck'd.
But now it boots you not in these to stray,
Or yet Cyllene's hoary shade to chuse,
Or where mild Ladon's swelling waters play.
Forego each vain excuse,

And haste to Thames's shores; for Thames shall join,
Our sad society, and passing mourn,

Letting cold tears bedew his silver urn.

And, when the poet's wither'd grot he laves,

His reed-crown'd locks shall shake, his head shall bow,
His tide no more in eddies blithe shall rove,

But creep soft by with long-drawn murmurs slow.
For oft the poet rous'd his charmed waves
With martial notes, or lull'd with strains of love.
He must not now in brisk meanders flow
Gamesome, and kiss the sadly-silent shore,
Without the loan of some poetic woe.

Can I forget how erst his osiers made 40 Sad sullen music, as bleak Eurus fann'd? Can I forget, how gloom'd yon laureat shade, Ere death remorseless wav'd his ebon wand ?

How, 'midst yon grot, each silver-trickling spring
Wander'd the shelly channels all among;

While as the coral roof did softly ring
Responsive to their sweetly doleful song?
Meanwhile all pale th' expiring poet laid,

And sunk his awful head,

While vocal shadows pleasing dreams prolong: 58 For so, his sick❜ning spirits to release,

They pour'd the balm of visionary peace.

First, sent from Cam's fair banks, like Palmer old, Came TITYRUS slow, with head all silver'd o'er, And in his hand an oaken crook he bore, And thus in antique guise short talk did hold. "Grete clerk of Fame' is house, whose excellence Maie wele befitt thilk place of eminence,

Mickle of wele betide thy houres last,

For mich gode wirkè to me don and past.

For

syn the daies whereas my lyre ben strongen, And deftly many a mery laie I songen,

Old Time, which alle things don maliciously,
Gnawen with rusty tooth continually,
Gnattrid my lines, that they all cancrid ben,
'Till at the last thou smoothen 'hem hast again;
Sithence full semely gliden my rhymes rude,
As (if tteth thilk similitude)

Whannè shallow brooke yrenneth hobling on,
Ovir rough stones it maken full rough song: 70
But, them stones removen, this lite rivere
Stealen forth by, making pleasant murmere:

So my sely rhimes, whoso may them note,
Thou maken everichone to ren right sote;
And in my verse entuneth so fetisely,
That men sayen I make trewe melody,
And speaken every dele to mine honoure.
Mich wele, grete clerk, betide thy parting houre!"

He ceas'd his homely rhyme.

When COLIN CLOUT, Eliza's shepherd swain, 30
The blithest lad that ever pip'd on plain,
Came with his reed soft-warbling on the way.
And thrice he bow'd his head with motion mild,
And thus his gliding numbers 'gan essay:

I.

"Ah! luckless swain, alas! how art thou lorn, Who once like me couldst frame thy pipe to play Shepherds devise, and chear the lingʼring morn: Ne bush, ne breere, but learnt thy roundelay. Ah plight too sore such worth to equal right! Ah worth too high to meet such piteous plight! Go

II.

"But I nought strive, poor Colin, to compare My Hobbin's, or my Thenot's rustic skill To thy deft Swains, whose dapper ditties rare Surpass ought else of quaintish shepherd's quill. Ev'n Roman Tytyrus, that peerless wight, Mote yield to thee for dainties of delight.

III.

"Eke when in Fable's flow'ry path you stray'd,
Masking in cunning feints Truth's splendent face;
Ne Sylph, ne Sylphid, but due tendance paid,
To shield Belinda's lock from felon base, 100
But all mote nought avail such harm to chase,
Than Una fair 'gan droop her princely mein,
Eke Florimel, and all my Faery race:

Belinda far surpast by beauties sheen,
Belinda, subject meet for such soft lay I ween.

IV.

"Like as in villag'd troop of birdlings trim, Where Chanticleer his red crest high doth hold, And quaking Ducks, that wont in lake to swim, And Turkeys proud, and Pigeons nothing bold; If chance the Peacock doth his plumes unfold, #0 Eftsoons their meaner beauties all decaying, He glist'neth purple, and he glist'neth gold, Now with bright green, now blue himself arraying. Such is thy beauty bright, all other beauties swaying.

ས.

"But why do I descant this toyish rhyme, And fancies light in simple guise pourtray? Listning to chear thee at this rueful time,

While as black Death doth on thy heartstrings prey.

Yet rede aright, and if this friendly lay

Thou nathless judgest all too slight and vain, 120 Let my well-meaning mend my ill essay: