A Propitiatory Sacrifice, To the Ghost of J— M— by way of Pastoral, in a Dialogue between Thyrsis and Corydon

THYRSIS.
GOod morrow, Corydon! but why so strange?
What makes your jolly Countenance thus change?
What, have you lost a Kid? or pine and mourn
For Galatea's slights, or Amarylli's scorn?
Did melancholy Dreams disturb your rest?
Ease then on me the burthen of your breast,
A hearty Friend will not your Grief despise,
And Thyrsis will be proud to sympathize.

CORYDON.
Ah, Thyrsis! see, after unpleasant food,
The very Cows will chew no bitter Cud;
Can my repeated Sorrows do thee good?
And yet for thee my Grief will I controul,
For thee I'll offer Violence to my Soul:
Know then, nor need I give that Caution, weep,
Thy Eyes are neither drie, nor Heart asleep:
Know then, the rise of it is Daphny's death;
And since the Fates have stopt my Daphny's breath,
I have my Pipes, my Flocks, my Loves forswore,
And well I might, since he is now no more.

THYRSIS.
When the Day's Lamp's shadow'd before the Night's,
And spangled Heaven sets out her glittering Lights,
Sweet Philomel her little Throat does tune,
And charm with warbling Notes the listning Moon.
When the sharp watchful Thorn has gor'd her breast,
And bleeding Philomel can take no rest:
So may your Muse unfledg'd yet try her Wing,
And Grief and Love joyntly together sing.
So may we well pull up the Sluces of our Eyes,
For Death has stopt the Springs of Paradise;
Which in profuse Meanders curling ran,
Baptiz'd us Poets, and gave life to Man.
For Death has seiz'd our Mint of learned Ore,
And sweep'd away all our Poetick store.
So when an ancient Oak falls on the ground,
The Woods all tremble, and the Rocks resound;
Nor falls alone, but hovering in the Air,
A thousand little Fates the Branches bear.
Arcadians mourn! Daphnis a publick loss,
And well may all our Tears and Grief engross.
Sound then his Obsequies, Daphnis deceast!
Come sing away the burthen of thy Breast,
For he deserves thy Song, and well deserves the best.
Or both alternately our parts will sing,
You shall the Laurel, I the Myrtle bring.

CORYDON.
Ord'nary Tears sufficient are to fall
Attendants of a common Funeral:
Daphnis deserves for each a drop of Blood,
And for each single drop a scarlet Flood.
As Nightingales sing sweeter than the Thrush;
The Cedar's better than the Bramble-bush;
Sweet Marjoram and Musk, than stinking Weeds;
Daphnis our Merit and our Praise exceeds.
The Elm for Daphnis groans, will let the Vine
No more in his embraces fondly twine.
Bees leave their Flowers, which droop their sickly head,
Have lost their sweet repast on which they fed,
Since he whose breath inspir'd it all, is dead.
Our Flocks all keep a Fast for Daphnis sake:
Our Isle the sweet-tongu'd Chanters too forsake.
None but the inauspicious Ravens croke,
The Nymphs and Demy-Gods their Pipes have broke,
And bid adieu to all their Fairy Kings.
The Scriech Owl howts, and the black Swallow sings.
Nature her self puts on her Mourning-Weed.
One Wound makes the whole Universe to bleed.

THYRSIS.
As Day without the prospect of the Sun,
As Night without the conduct of the Moon,
Such, Daphnis, is the World, now thou art gone!
For Daphnis, too too well belov'd of Heaven,
Only to teach us Self-denial given,
Is dead alas! O Paradox! is dead,
Voracious Grave! and consecrated Head!
What, could not Daphnis charm ambitious Death,
From gathering all the Reliques of his breath?
Could He not ev'n the Powers of Hell defy,
And by soft Airs bring them to Harmony?
Been something more than Mortal? No—Hard Fate
Spares not the Rich, the Good, the Wise, the Great.
The proudest Dust must hid in silence lie:
The proudest Dust must in oblivion die.

CORYDON.
Thô Fortune acted oft the Stepdame's part,
Yet would not Daphnis curse her in his heart:
Thô Gall infus'd into his bitter Cup,
Taught by Philosophy, he drank it up.
Ah too too soon a shining Cherub made
Of that blest place thou hadst so long survey'd!
My Muse must tell the Groves Great Daphnis dead!
Whilst pining Eccho answers what is said:
Eccho for him must die a second death,
Us'd to retort his words, and suck his fragrant breath.

THYRSIS.
Trees full of Tears hide their heads, bowing down,
All Rivals once which should be made his Crown:
All proudly conscious of their welcome Shade,
Where Judgment, Wit, and Innocence were laid:
Nurse of his Thought, and Midwife of his Brain,
That fruitful teeming Womb that knew no pain;
But brought the well-digested Product forth,
Pregnant with joy, and boasting such a Birth.
Nor must we here his forward Youth forget,
To pay whose Portion Nature ran in debt.
So soon the Bard, and so divine a share
He well deserv'd, who was her only Heir,
Her Darling-Son, and her peculiar Care.
He could teach Reverend Sages how to write,
And prescribe Rules ev'n to the God of Wit.
(Like Tages) born a Poet from the Womb,
And sung himself from 's Cradle to his Tomb.
Inspir'd with Melody, with his first breath,
Improving Art and Learning, till his death.
Still as his annual Circles rowl'd about,
They unknown Worlds of Sciences found out.
Here only Mother Nature, for his sake,
Did her own Laws out of Indulgence break,
From Youth and Age one spiritual Compound make.
But when his Age and Fruit together ripe,
(Of which blind Homer only was the Type)
Tiresias like, he mounted up on high,
And scorn'd the filth of dull Mortality.
Convers'd with Gods, and grac'd their Royal Line,
All Ecstasie, all Rapture, all Divine.

CORYDON.
So the Philosopher would needs be blind,
T' improve the nobler Eye-sight of his Mind,
Not to mean earthly Opticks be confin'd.

THYRSIS.
No wonder, if th' ambitious Laurel's dead,
Degraded to a Mercenary Head.
If Birds forget their Notes, and sit alone,
With melancholy Progne in the Deserts moan,
Since this our Bird of Paradise is flown.
Daphnis! the great Reformer of our Isle!
Daphnis! the Patron of the Roman Stile!
Who first to sence converted Doggrel Rhimes,
The Muses Bells took off, and stopt their Chimes,
On surer Wings, with an immortal flight,
Taught us how to believe, and how to write.
And could we but have reach'd his wondrous height,
We'd chang'd the constitution of our State.
Where Reason must enlightned Souls confute,
To common Earth 'tis still forbidden Fruit:
For all in Torrents his Inventions flow,
And drown the little Vales that lie below.
And yet so sweet, Malice would silenc'd die;
So perfect, they could Prejudice defie.
Daphnis! whose Modesty might justly boast,
His Errours least, his Excellencies most.
Well might we blush at every sacred Line,
To see a Soul so Humble, so Divine.
But I offend—and whilst I praise his Stile,
Do in Apostate Rhimes his Worth defile.
His Guardian Angel does begin to frown,
His Spirit looks with indignation down.

CORYDON.
Ev'n Tombs of Stone in time will wear away;
Brass Pyramids are subject to decay;
But lo! the Poet's Fame shall brighter shine
In each succeeding Age,
Laughing at the baffled Rage
Of envious Enemies, and destructive Time.

THYRSIS.
Rest Phoenix! in thy Paradise above,
Thy Works enjoy a Paradise of Love:
Thô some with a rank emulous Poyson swell,
Others admire, and praise, but none excel.
May our poor Rustick Muse add Cyphers to thy Fame.
Thy Works are everlasting Monuments to thy Name.