Pastoral IX (Dryden): Lycidas, and Moeris

LYCIDAS
HO Moeris! whether on thy way so fast?
This leads to Town.

MOERIS
O Lycidas, at last
The Time is come I never thought to see,
(Strange Revolution for my Farm and me)
When the grim Captain in a surly Tone
Cries out, pack up ye Rascals, and be gone.
Kick'd out, we set the best Face on't we cou'd,
And these two Kids, t' appease his angry Mood,
I bear, of which the Furies give him good.

LYCIDAS
Your Country Friends were told another Tale;
That from the sloaping Mountain to the Vale,
And dodder'd Oak, and all the Banks along,
Menalcas sav'd his Fortune with a Song.

MOERIS
Such was the News, indeed, but Songs and Rhymes
Prevail as much in these hard Iron Times,
As would a plump of trembling Fowl, that rise
Against an Eagle sousing from the Skies.
And had not Phoebus warn'd me by the croak
Of an old Raven, from a hollow Oak,
To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,
And Moeris not surviv'd him, to complain.

LYCIDAS
Now Heav'n defend! cou'd barb'rous Rage induce
The Brutal Son of Mars, t' insult the sacred Muse!
Who then shou'd sing the Nymphs, or who rehearse
The Waters gliding in a smoother Verse!
Or Amaryllis praise, that Heav'nly Lay,
That shorten'd as we went, our tedious Way.
O Tity'rus, tend my Herd, and see them fed;
To Morning Pastures, Evening Waters led:
And 'ware the Lybian Ridgils butting Head.

MOERIS
Or what unfinish'd He to Varus read;
Thy Name, O Varus (if the kinder Pow'rs
Preserve our Plains, and shield the Mantuan Tow'rs,
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighb'ring Crime,)
The Wings of Swans, and stronger pinion'd Rhyme,
Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above
Th' immortal Gift of Gratitude to Jove.

LYCIDAS
Sing on, sing on, for I can ne're be cloy'd,
So may thy Swarms the baleful Eugh avoid:
So may thy Cows their burden'd Bags distend,
And Trees to Goats their willing Branches bend.
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made
Me free, a Member of the tuneful trade:
At least the Shepherds seem to like my Lays,
But I discern their Flatt'ry from their Praise:
I nor to Cinna's Ears, nor Varus dare aspire;
But gabble like a Goose, amidst the Swan-like Quire.

MOERIS
'Tis what I have been conning in my Mind:
Nor are they Verses of a Vulgar Kind.
Come, Galatea, come, the Seas forsake;
What Pleasures can the Tides with their hoarse Murmurs make?
See, on the Shore inhabits purple Spring;
Where Nightingales their Love-sick Ditty fing;
See, Meads with purling Streams, with Flow'rs the Ground,
The Grottoes cool, with shady Poplars crown'd,
And creeping Vines on Arbours weav'd around.
Come then, and leave the Waves tumultuous roar,
Let the wild Surges vainly beat the Shore.

LYCIDAS
Or that sweet Song I heard with such delight;
The same you sung alone one starry Night;
The Tune I still retain, but not the Words.

MOERIS
Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old Records,
To know the Seasons when the Stars arise?
See Caesar's Lamp is lighted in the Skies:
The Star, whose Rays the blushing Grapes adorn,
And swell the kindly ripening Ears of Corn.
Under this influence, graft the tender Shoot;
Thy Childrens Children shall enjoy the Fruit.
The rest I have forgot, for Cares and Time
Change all things, and untune my Soul to Rhime:
I cou'd have once sung down a Summer's Sun,
But now the Chime of Poetry is done.
My Voice grows hoarse; I feel the Notes decay,
As if the Wolves had seen me first to Day.
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,
Menalcas has not yet forgott to sing.

LYCIDAS
Thy faint Excuses but inflame me more;
And now the Waves rowl silent to the Shore.
Husht Winds the topmost Branches scarcely bend,
As if thy tuneful Song they did attend:
Already we have half our way o'recome;
Far off I can discern Bianor's Tomb;
Here, where the Labourer's hands have form'd a Bow'r
Of wreathing Trees, in Singing waste an Hour.
Rest here thy weary Limbs, thy Kids lay down,
We've Day before us yet, to reach the Town:
Or if e're Night the gath'ring Clouds we fear,
A Song will help the beating Storm to bear.
And that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Sing, and I'll ease thy Shoulders of thy Load.

MOERIS
Cease to request me, let us mind our way;
Another Song requires another Day.
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoyce,
And find a Friend at Court, I'll find a Voice.