Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, 30 Towards Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone! 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. 40 Where were ye, Nymphs! when the remorseless deep 50 Closed 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: Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye been there, for what could that have done? When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 60 |