LYCIDAS
Begin, sing me your song; and I will pray your swarms
of bees avoid the bitter Corsican yew, and that your
milch cows pasture on the lucerne and fill their udders
full The spirit of song made me a poet as well; me
too the shepherds call a bard; but 1 do not lightly be-
lieve their judgement. For as yet I cannot sing songs
worthy of Varust or of Cinna, but am like a strident
gander among the swans,
MOERIS
1 am trying to recall a poem, and am going over it in
my mind, it is a fine poem:
COME HITHER, GALATEA, WHAT SPORT IS THERE
IN THE WATER? HERE IS THE BRIGHTNESS OF
SPRING, HERE THE GREEN TURF SENDS UP THE
PIED FLOWERS ON THE BANKS OF THE STREAM:
HERE THE WHITE POPLAR HANGS OVER THE
CAVE, AND THE TWINING VINES WEAVE A
FLICKERING SHADE, COME HITHER, AND LEAVE
THE WAVES BEATING MADLY ON THE SHORE,
LYCIDAS
And that song I heard you singing by yourself one
clear night, I remember the tune if I could only think


rou SCAN THE ANCIENT
HE STAR OF CAESAR, VE-
THE STAR OF RIPENING
:APES TURNING DARK ON
THNIS, GRAFT YOUR PEAR-
PONS SHALL GATHER THE
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