Lycidas – John Milton
A LAMENT FOR A FRIEND DROWNED IN HIS PASSAGE FROM CHESTER ON THE IRISH SEAS, 1637
(In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by this occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.)
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, 5
Bitter constraints, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He well knew 10
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme,
He must not float upon his watery bier
Un wept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, 15
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial, vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn, 20
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear’d 25
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn.
We drove afield: and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright, 30
Toward heaven’s descent had slop’d his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to th’ oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with clov’n heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long. 35
And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding wine o’ergrown, 40
And all their echoes mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As Killing as the canker to the rose 45
Or taint worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear
When first the white thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.
Where were ye nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50
Closed o’er the head of your lov’d Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there —for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son
Whom universal nature did lament, 60
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! What boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely slighted shepherd trade, 65
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Naeaera’s hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 70
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorred shears. 75
And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise’,
Phoebus replied and touched my trembling ears;
‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th’ world, nor in broad rumour lies; 80
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, 85
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune’s plea; 90
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged winds
That blows from off each beaked promontory;
They knew not of his story, 95
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played,
It was that fatal and perfidious bark 100
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
‘Ah! Who hath reft,’ (quoth he) ‘my dearest pledge?’
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 110
(the golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
‘how well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! That scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 120
That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their srannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125
But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread,
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw,
Daily devours apace, and nothing said,
But that two-handed engine at the door 130
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135
Ye valleys low where the mild whispers use
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet 145
The musk-rose, and the well attired-woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 150
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding seas.
Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled, 155
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth,
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, 165
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore, 170
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walked the waves
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
Is the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genuius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good,
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 195
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
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The evolution of thought in Lycidas
Milton’s Lycidas is an elegiac poem in the pastoral vein on the death of his friend, Edward King. At the time of composition of this elegy, Milton was the victim of several conflicting thoughts and emotions. A careful study of the varying moods of the poem would reveal the fact that Milton was passing through a period of intense mental disturbance. The poem starts with an apology for breaking his resolve not to write any poetry until his genius was sufficiently mature for the purpose. A sad occasion, the unfortunate death of his friend Lycidas (Edward King), has compelled him to write a poem long before maturity. It would be churlish on his part to refuse, and so hoping for a similar service himself, he invokes the aid of the Muses.
He recollects the happy days he spent at the University of Cambridge with his dear friend. They were interested in the same subjects. Often, they would retire to the seclusion of the forest and spend their time in composing and singing songs. The undergraduates would crowd around them and dance. Even old Damoetas (a teacher) approved.
Milton finds it impossible to reconcile himself to his loss. He wonders what the nymphs were doing when the sea closed over his friend’s head. But this is an idle thought, for the nymphs would not have been in a position to help Lycidas. Even the great Muse, Calliope, was unable to do anything when her son Orpheus was lynched by the frenzied women of Thrace.
Once again Milton thinks of his ideal in poetry and wonders whether he is right in consecrating himself to such an exacting, and distant, though noble, purpose. Doubt makes him imagine that it would perhaps be far better to write love poetry and secure immediate applause. Why should he try to win fame by scoring delights and living laborious days, when death might come at any moment? Phoebus Apollo suddenly appears and consoles him saying that true fame could be had only in heaven.
Milton returns to the pastoral strain and conducts an inquiry about the cause of Lycidas’ death. The waves and the winds are innocent. The sea was so calm that Penope and all her sisters played on it. The conclusion is arrived at that the tragedy was the result of the ship being built in an eclipse and rigged with ‘curses dark’.
We have after this the procession of mourners. Camus, reverend sire, representing the University of Cambridge, comes and mourns the death of Lycidas. St. Peter, the pilot of the Galilean lake, who opens the gates of Heaven for the holy souls with golden key and with iron key he closes the gates of Heaven against the unholy souls, comes last and feels bitter, because in Lycidas has lost his only hope. The church is corrupt, and only a man like Lycidas could have saved it from ruin. Milton uses this opportunity to pour out his wrath on the corrupt clergymen of the time. He gives a grim picture of their utter selfishness and unfitness for the task. They poison the atmosphere with their foul doctrines and make no attempt to prevent the ever-increasing conversion to Catholicism. He predicts that these corrupt clergymen will soon meet with the punishment they deserve.
After this violent outburst, he comes back once again to the peaceful pastoral strain. He invites the valleys to cast their flowers of varying hues and fragrances on the dead body of Lycidas. The body is, of course, not is being tossed about between the Hebrides and Land’s End. Anyway, Milton derives some consolation from imagining that his friend’s body is lying there to receive these blossoms.
The poem concludes on a more joyous note, blending calm, dutiful resignation, and hopefulness. Milton realizes that there is no occasion for grief, for Lycidas, like the sun, has died only to rise in greater glory. He pictures him in heaven welcomed by the angels, the tears wiped forever from his eyes, and listening to the unexpressive, nuptial song. Milton appoints him also as the genius of the shore whose duty it would be to guard all who sail there.
In Lycidas, Milton touches various moods and feelings. He seems to have been conscious of this himself when he refers in the concluding lines to the tender stops of various quills. Lycidas is indeed a poem of varying moods.
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