Commission'd to convene with hasty call The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou stand! So stood Cyllenius5 erst in Priam's hall, Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command, And so, Eurybates6 when he address'd To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest. Dread Queen of sepulchres! whose rig'rous laws And watchful eyes, run through the realms below, 20 Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause, Too often to the Muse not less a foe, Chose meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen and its shame! Flow, therefore, tears for Him from ev'ry eye, All ye disciples of the Muses, weep! Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye, Around his bier, lament his endless sleep, And let complaining Elegy rehearse In every School her sweetest saddest verse. 30 1 Richard Redding of St. John's College, M.A. He died in October, I626. 2 The Swan--Jove had turned himself into that bird. 3 i.e. Jason, who was restored to youth by his daughter Medea. 4 Esculapius, the god of medicine. 5 Hermes. 6 One of the heralds sent to Achilles by Agamemnon. ELEGY III Anno Aetates 17.1 On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester.2 Silent I sat, dejected, and alone, Making in thought the public woes my own, When, first, arose the image in my breast Of England's sufferings by that scourge, the pest.3 How death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand, Ent'ring the lordliest mansions of the land, Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low, And level'd tribes of Nobles at a blow. I, next, deplor'd the famed fraternal pair4 Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air, 10 The Heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs; But Thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, Winton's chief shepherd and her worthiest boast; Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said-- Death, next in pow'r to Him who rules the Dead! Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field, That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, And ev'n the Cyprian Queen's own roses, pine, 20 That oaks themselves, although the running rill Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will, That all the winged nations, even those Whose heav'n-directed flight the Future shows, And all the beasts that in dark forests stray, And all the herds of Proteus5 are thy prey? Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfined Why stain thy hands with blood of Human kind? Why take delight, with darts that never roam, To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home? 30 While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood, Now newly ris'n, above the western flood, And Phoebus from his morning-goal again Had reach'd the gulphs of the Iberian main. I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclined Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd, When--Oh for words to paint what I beheld! I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, Where all the champain glow'd with purple light