A Pastoral Eclogue Upon the Death of Sir Philip Sidney, Knight, &c.
Lycon. Colin.
Lycon.
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 barèd trees;
Phillisides 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 need skill to teach
A grievèd mind pour forth his plaints? How long
Hath the poor turtle gone to school, weenest 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 leader’s 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. Phillisides is dead! O harmful death!
O deadly harm! Unhappy Albion!
When shalt thou see emong thy shepherds all
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath
Envy could touch for virtuous life and skill:
Courteous, valiant, and liberal.
Behold the sacred Pales! where with hair
Untrusst, 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 Oreades 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; whiles wolves do howl and bark,
And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint.
Lycon. Phillisides 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,
Along the banks of many silver streams,
Thou with him yodest; and with him did scale
The craggy rocks of th’Alps and Appennine?
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 corps 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. Phillisides 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, fawns and satyrs, that emong
These thickets oft have danced after his pipe!
Ye Nymphs and Naiads 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 engravèd 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. Phillisides is dead! O happy sprite!
That now in heaven with blessèd souls dost bide.
Look down awhile from where thou sitt’st 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 cherisht most whilere,
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 learnedst 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 homewards our silly sheep.
Lycon! let’s rise, and take of them good keep.
Virtute summa; cætera fortuna.
L. B.