Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore,
But lest the sightless boy inforce my stay,
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc'ry of Circæan art,
And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools

To face once more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhimes though few,

Yet such, as prove thy friend's remembrance

true!

ELEGY II.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE
AT CAMBRIDGE.

Composed by Milton in the 17th Year of his Age.

THEE, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear, Minerva's flock long time was wont t' obey, Although thyself an herald, famous here,

The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away.

He calls on all alike, nor e'en deigns

To

spare the office, that himself sustains.

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd
By Leda's paramour in antient time,

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd,
Or Æson-like to know a second prime,

Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son.

Commission'd to convene, with hasty call,

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou

stand!

So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command!

And so Eury bates, when he address'd
To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest.

Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws And watchful eyes, run through the realms below, Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause!

Too often to the muse not less a foe!

Chuse meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its shame!.

Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'ry eye,
All ye disciples of the muses, weep!
Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye,

Around his bier, lament his endless sleep!
And let complaining elegy rehearse,

In every school, her sweetest, saddest verse.

ELEGY III.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

Composed in the Author's 17th Year.

SILENT I sat, dejected, and alone,

Making, in thought, the public woes my own,

When, first, arose the image

in my

breast

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest!
How Death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand,
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land,
Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low,
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow.
I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair,
Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air!
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies,
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs,
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast!

Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said:

"Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the

dead!

Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield

To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,
That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,
And ev'n the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine,
That oaks themselves, although the running rill
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will,
That all the winged nations, even those,
Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows,
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray,
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey.
Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin'd!
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind?
Why take delight, with darts, that never roam,
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home?”

While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood, Now newly ris'n above the western flood,