Colin, well fits thy sad cheer this sad stound,
This woeful stound, wherein all things complain
This great mishap, this grievous loss of ours.
Hear'st thou the Orown? — how with hollow sound
He slides away, and murmuring doth plain,
And seems to say unto the fading flowers,
Along his banks, unto the bared trees,
" Philisides is dead." Up, jolly swain,
Thou that with skill canst tune a doleful lay,
Help him to mourn. My heart with grief doth freeze,
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I bear, though rude. But as I may,
With sobs and sighs I second will thy song,
And so express the sorrows of my heart. Colin.
Ah Lycon, Lycon, what needs skill to teach
A grieved mind pour forth his plaints? How long
Hath the poor turtle gone to school (ween'st thou?)
To learn to mourn her lost make? No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to wail.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In doleful sound. Like him, not one doth fail
With hanging head to show a heavy cheer.
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes
Himself of late? Did any cheerful note
Come to thine ears, or gladsome sight appear
Unto thine eyes, since that same fatal hour?
Hath not the air put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing tears?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his power
Doth us invite to make a sad consort.
Come, let us join our mournful song with theirs.
Grief will indite, and sorrow will enforce
Thy voice, and Echo will our words report. Lycon.
Though my rude rhymes ill with thy verses frame,
That others far excel, yet will I force
Myself to answer thee the best I can,
And honour my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O Pan)
To pardon me, and hear this hard constraint
With patience while I sing, and pity it.
And eke, ye rural Muses, that do dwell
In these wild woods, if ever piteous plaint
We did indite, or taught a woeful mind
With words of pure affect his grief to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then go on,
And I will follow thee, though far behind. Colin.
Philisides is dead. O harmful death,
O deadly harm! Unhappy Albion,
When shalt thou see among thy shepheards all
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom unneath
Envy could touch for virtuous life and skill;
Courteous, valiant, and liberal.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with hair
Untrussed she sits, in shade of yonder hill.
And her fair face bent sadly down doth send
A flood of tears to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the heavens despiteful, envious;
Cruel his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthy to have been
Prolonged with many years, happy and famous.
The Nymphs and Oreads her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassy green,
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest breasts,
Accuse the direful dart that death sent out
To give the fatal stroke. The stars they blame,
That deaf or careless seem at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their crystal springs, where they wont frame
Sweet bowers of myrtle twigs and laurel fair,
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves where horror dark
Doth dwell, whence banished is the gladsome air,
They seek; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailful tunes, while wolves do howl and bark,
And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint. Lycon.
Philisides is dead. O doleful rhyme,
Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes when they do faint,
Lycon unfortunate? What spiteful fate,
What luckless destiny hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay?
Where is become thy wonted happy state,
(Alas) wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods and many an unknown way
Thou with him yodest; and with him didst scale
The craggy rocks of th'Alps and Appenine,
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beams
Of virtue kindled in his noble breast
Which after did so gloriously forth shine?
But (woe is me) they now yquenched are
All suddenly, and death hath them oppressed.
Lo, father Neptune with sad countenance,
How he sits mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th'ocean with his rolling waves
The white feet washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffs. His sacred skirt about
The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,
The fruitful Severn, with the rest are come
To help their lord to mourn, and eke to see
The doleful sight and sad pomp funeral
Of the dead corpse passing through his kingdom.
And all their heads with cypress garlands crowned,
With woeful shrieks salute him, great and small.
Eke wailful Echo, forgetting her dear
Narcissus, their last accents doth resound. Colin.
Philisides is dead. O luckless age,
O widow world! O brooks and fountains clear!
O hills, O dales, O woods that oft have rung
With his sweet carolling, which could assuage
The fiercest wrath of tiger or of bear.
Ye Sylvans, Fauns and Satyrs, that among
These thickets oft have danced after his pipe,
Ye Nymphs and Naiades with golden hair
That oft have left your purest crystal springs
To hearken to his lays, that coulden wipe
Away all grief and sorrow from your hearts,
Alas who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you hear again like harmony?
So sweet a sound, who to you now imparts?
Lo, where engraved by his hand yet lives
The name of Stella, in yonder bay tree!
Happy name, happy tree; fair may you grow,
And spread your sacred branch, which honour gives
To famous emperors, and poets crown.
Unhappy flock that wander scattered now,
What marvel if through grief ye woxen lean,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adown?
For such a shepherd never shall you guide,
Whose parting hath of weal bereft you clean. Lycon.
Philisides is dead. O happy sprite,
That now in heaven with blessed souls dost bide!
Look down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busy shepherds be to indite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrows to declare,
And grateful memory of their kind love.
Behold myself with Colin, gentle swain
(Whose learned Muse thou cherished most whylere),
Where we thy name recording, seek to ease
The inward torment and tormenting pain
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each other's sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withered grass with cypress boughs bespread;
Behold these flowers which on thy grave we strew,
Which, faded, show the givers' faded state
(Though eke they show their fervent zeal and pure),
Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for aye,
That to thy ashes rest they may assure:
That learned shepherds honour may thy name
With yearly praises, and the Nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowers,
And that for ever may endure thy fame. Colin.
The sun (lo) hastened hath his face to steep
In western waves, and th'air with stormy showers
Warns us to drive homeward our silly sheep.
Lycon, let's rise, and take of them good keep.
This woeful stound, wherein all things complain
This great mishap, this grievous loss of ours.
Hear'st thou the Orown? — how with hollow sound
He slides away, and murmuring doth plain,
And seems to say unto the fading flowers,
Along his banks, unto the bared trees,
" Philisides is dead." Up, jolly swain,
Thou that with skill canst tune a doleful lay,
Help him to mourn. My heart with grief doth freeze,
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I bear, though rude. But as I may,
With sobs and sighs I second will thy song,
And so express the sorrows of my heart. Colin.
Ah Lycon, Lycon, what needs skill to teach
A grieved mind pour forth his plaints? How long
Hath the poor turtle gone to school (ween'st thou?)
To learn to mourn her lost make? No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to wail.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In doleful sound. Like him, not one doth fail
With hanging head to show a heavy cheer.
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes
Himself of late? Did any cheerful note
Come to thine ears, or gladsome sight appear
Unto thine eyes, since that same fatal hour?
Hath not the air put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing tears?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his power
Doth us invite to make a sad consort.
Come, let us join our mournful song with theirs.
Grief will indite, and sorrow will enforce
Thy voice, and Echo will our words report. Lycon.
Though my rude rhymes ill with thy verses frame,
That others far excel, yet will I force
Myself to answer thee the best I can,
And honour my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O Pan)
To pardon me, and hear this hard constraint
With patience while I sing, and pity it.
And eke, ye rural Muses, that do dwell
In these wild woods, if ever piteous plaint
We did indite, or taught a woeful mind
With words of pure affect his grief to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then go on,
And I will follow thee, though far behind. Colin.
Philisides is dead. O harmful death,
O deadly harm! Unhappy Albion,
When shalt thou see among thy shepheards all
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom unneath
Envy could touch for virtuous life and skill;
Courteous, valiant, and liberal.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with hair
Untrussed she sits, in shade of yonder hill.
And her fair face bent sadly down doth send
A flood of tears to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the heavens despiteful, envious;
Cruel his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthy to have been
Prolonged with many years, happy and famous.
The Nymphs and Oreads her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassy green,
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest breasts,
Accuse the direful dart that death sent out
To give the fatal stroke. The stars they blame,
That deaf or careless seem at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their crystal springs, where they wont frame
Sweet bowers of myrtle twigs and laurel fair,
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves where horror dark
Doth dwell, whence banished is the gladsome air,
They seek; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailful tunes, while wolves do howl and bark,
And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint. Lycon.
Philisides is dead. O doleful rhyme,
Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes when they do faint,
Lycon unfortunate? What spiteful fate,
What luckless destiny hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay?
Where is become thy wonted happy state,
(Alas) wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods and many an unknown way
Thou with him yodest; and with him didst scale
The craggy rocks of th'Alps and Appenine,
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beams
Of virtue kindled in his noble breast
Which after did so gloriously forth shine?
But (woe is me) they now yquenched are
All suddenly, and death hath them oppressed.
Lo, father Neptune with sad countenance,
How he sits mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th'ocean with his rolling waves
The white feet washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffs. His sacred skirt about
The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,
The fruitful Severn, with the rest are come
To help their lord to mourn, and eke to see
The doleful sight and sad pomp funeral
Of the dead corpse passing through his kingdom.
And all their heads with cypress garlands crowned,
With woeful shrieks salute him, great and small.
Eke wailful Echo, forgetting her dear
Narcissus, their last accents doth resound. Colin.
Philisides is dead. O luckless age,
O widow world! O brooks and fountains clear!
O hills, O dales, O woods that oft have rung
With his sweet carolling, which could assuage
The fiercest wrath of tiger or of bear.
Ye Sylvans, Fauns and Satyrs, that among
These thickets oft have danced after his pipe,
Ye Nymphs and Naiades with golden hair
That oft have left your purest crystal springs
To hearken to his lays, that coulden wipe
Away all grief and sorrow from your hearts,
Alas who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you hear again like harmony?
So sweet a sound, who to you now imparts?
Lo, where engraved by his hand yet lives
The name of Stella, in yonder bay tree!
Happy name, happy tree; fair may you grow,
And spread your sacred branch, which honour gives
To famous emperors, and poets crown.
Unhappy flock that wander scattered now,
What marvel if through grief ye woxen lean,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adown?
For such a shepherd never shall you guide,
Whose parting hath of weal bereft you clean. Lycon.
Philisides is dead. O happy sprite,
That now in heaven with blessed souls dost bide!
Look down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busy shepherds be to indite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrows to declare,
And grateful memory of their kind love.
Behold myself with Colin, gentle swain
(Whose learned Muse thou cherished most whylere),
Where we thy name recording, seek to ease
The inward torment and tormenting pain
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each other's sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withered grass with cypress boughs bespread;
Behold these flowers which on thy grave we strew,
Which, faded, show the givers' faded state
(Though eke they show their fervent zeal and pure),
Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for aye,
That to thy ashes rest they may assure:
That learned shepherds honour may thy name
With yearly praises, and the Nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowers,
And that for ever may endure thy fame. Colin.
The sun (lo) hastened hath his face to steep
In western waves, and th'air with stormy showers
Warns us to drive homeward our silly sheep.
Lycon, let's rise, and take of them good keep.