The punishment still manifests the sin, As outward signs show the disease within. While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height, And palm-like bravely overtops the weight. So where swift Isca from our lofty hills With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills A wider channel, like some great port-vein With large rich streams to fill the humble plain: I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade, Projected far, a goodly shelter made; And from the top with thick diffused boughs In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house. Here many garlands won at roundel-lays Old shepherds hung up in those happy days With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless. And many times had old Amphion made His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade: His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white As those the welkin shows in moonshine night. Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I In dark records and numbers nobly high, The visions of our black, but brightest bard From old Amphion's mouth full often heard; With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known, And riddles more, which future time must own: While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made Music as solemn as the song and shade. But the curs'd owner from the trembling top To the firm brink did all those branches lop; And in one hour what many years had bred, The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead. The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss, While storms and cold winds did improve the cross; But nature, which--like virtue--scorns to yield, Brought new recruits and succours to the field; For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep, And upwards still to feel the sun did creep; Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made, There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade. _Menalcas._ So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light When put out gains a value from the night. How glad are we, when but one twinkling star Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar: And Providence was kind, that order'd this To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss: Nor is it so till this short life be done, But goes hence with him, and is still his sun. _Damon._ Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learned lays. Bring here the florid glories of the spring, And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing, Which to your children and the years to come May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb. While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.