DAMON: A PASTORAL, Lamenting the DEATH Of that Incomparable MASTER of MUSIC, Mr. Henry Purcell; Late Organist of his Majesty's Chapel, and St. Peter's Westminster.  
— Cui liquidem pater  
Vocem cum citharâ dedit.  Hor. Quando ullum invenient parem? Ibid. 
By J. G. M. A.  
LONDON, Printed by J. Heptinstall, for Henry Playford, in the Middle-Temple Change, in Fleetstreet. 1696.   

DAMON and THYRSIS.  Dam. 

BEneath this dismal Yew with Moss overgrown,  
Where nought but Tears are dropped, and Sighs are blown.  
Begirt with baleful Cypress-Trees around,  
Which gloomy Night and black Despair surround:  
Where ne'er Salubrious Herb, or Fragrant Flower  
Did spring and smile; where ne'er fell Fertile Shower;  
But th' humid Skies a damp perpetual wear,  
And dusky Mists hang in the lazy Air.  
Here, here we'll lie, with Cypress Chaplets crowned,  
Our Heads reclining on th' unwholesome Ground;  
We'll lie and sing, how our Great Pan is dead,  
With whom the Soul of Harmony is fled:  
In mutual Plaints we'll sweetly sigh our Grief;  
Ah! Grief which here admits of no Relief:  
Come, let's begin and sing Arcadia's Loss,  
And let Pan all our Sighs, and all our Tears engross.   Thyr. 

Alas! how can we sing, now He is gone!  
He taught us Songs, without Him we learned none:  
The little Birds their chirping Notes have lost;  
Which, imitating Him, they once could boast:  
No more can Philomela with Tuneful Voice  
The Gladsome Woods and Echoing Hills rejoice;  
Swans only sing:— and only sing to die,  
Warbling their own, and his sad Elegy.  
The hooting Owls, those Birds obscene of Night,  
With Screeches shape their Inauspicious Flight  
To croaking Ravens: hideous Screams than rend  
Th' affrighted Plain, and deadly Fates portend.  
But who can sing in Sweet, Harmonious Lay,  
Equal to our departed Master's Praise?  
Could I but pattern his Pathetic Strain,  

* Words upon Mr. J. Playford' s Death, Set incomparably by Mr. Purcell.  Theron, beloved of Pan and dear to Phoebus' Train;  
Like Him I'd make each flinty Rock relent,  
And the moved Stones give their new Passion vent.  
But I am young in Art, and must decline  
This Task, which with Reluctance I resign;  
Thou best knowst how to sing, and how to mourn;  
He gave thee Skill, which to his Praise return.   Dam. 

Hence, hence, Terpsichore, hence from my Sight  
Be gone, to distant Regions wing thy Flight:  
Hence with thy jocund Thoughts and jolly Train  
Of Fancies, which oft revealed in my Brain.  
On Sighs, than Air, Camelion like I'll live,  
And Tears I'll drink, and drink 'em oft to grieve.  
Come to my Arms, Melpomene I'm blest  
In thy Embrace, thou Mistress of my Breast;  
With thee I'll sigh all Night, and weep all Day,  
In sobbing Accents mourn my Soul away;  
Great Pan's not more: let Arcadia deplore  
Th' Irreparable Loss; Great Pan's not more.  
Lament, lament, ye wretched Nymphs and Swains,  
Lament Great Pan deceased, in Mournful Strains.   

And lo! the Muses mourn, deep Sables wear,  
Untune their Lyres, and doleful Swains prepare:  
The Graces weep, clad in a rueful Dress,  
No pleated Vest is seen nor braided Tress:  
Wild are their Looks, dishevelled is their Hair,  
And their lose Garments ruffle in the Air.  
Venus with piteous Wailing vents a Groan,  
Her Doves sit by, murmur, and with her moan:  
Cupid unbraces too his little Bow,  
And flings it wide, his Shafts are useless now.  
The rugged Satyrs full of Grief forbear  
Each Antic Gesture and each Comic Jeer;  
The Dryads, with the Sylvans and the Fauns,  
No more in Dances trip it o'er the Lawns;  
All cry, Pan's gone to the dark Shades below,  
Condoling Echo sighing, answers,— Oh!  
Lament, lament, ye wretched Nymphs and Swains,  
Lament, Great Pan deceased, in Mournful Strains.   

Never was Earth blest with such Heavenly Sound,  
Never were Swains in such deep Transports drowned,  
As when the Skilful Shepherd touched his Reed,  
Others which far, did very far exceed:  
Ecstatick Raptures filled our ravished Mind,  
So lost, that we ourselves could scarcely find;  
We sunk beneath th' unwieldy Load of Bliss,  
And fainted: but not thought the Charm amiss.  
As Infant-Violets and the opening Rose  
To court our smelling fragrant Sweets disclose;  
So did his Lays melodious Sweets dispense,  
To charm the Ear and captivate the Sense.  
His Mystic Airs strange Pleasures could impart,  
Could raise the Soul, as well as move the Heart.  
We saw how o'er the stops his Fingers bound,  
And blest the Skill, which we so wondrous found;  
Divine he seemed,— or something more than Man,  
But now he's less, contracted to a Span.  
Lament, lament, ye wretched Nymphs and Swains,  
Lament, Great Pan deceased, in Mournful Strains.   

Dull Moevius Sonnets how did he refine!  
To pleasing Notes, harsh, grating Numbers join!  
He smoothed our words, and filled our uncouth Tongue,  
And polished well each Line of every Song.  
Whenever the Artful Shepherd sat and played,  
The mute Creation harked, his Charm obeyed:  
The lowing Herds to hear him wondering stood,  
And bleating Flocks, regardless of their Food.  
The Feathered Choir descending thronged each Bow,  
Then mounting chirped, and tried such Notes to show;  
The Finny People leaped above the Flood,  
To view what 'twas, that their Attention wooed:  
Impatient of the Bliss, they reach the Side,  
Assisted by the timely flowing Tide;  
Mindful of Sounds they never heard before,  
And heedless of the Ebb, they're left on Shore.  
Whenever the mighty Songster raised his Voice,  
He checked each murmur, stilled each louder Noise:  
The foaming Surges did forget to roar,  
And raging Billows durst not brave the Shore.  
He smoothed the Brow of every wrinkled Stream,  
And blust'ring Winds hung lulled as in a Dream:  
No gentle Breeze could rise to lay a Sweat,  
No breath of Air could fan the sultry Heat;  
Whole Nature bowed, owned his miraculous Art,  
To which she largely did herself impart.  
Thus powerful were His Songs;— but he's no more,  
Ah! rigid Fate! in vain we thee implore.  
Lament, lament, ye wretched Nymphs and Swains,  
Lament, Great Pan deceased, in Mournful Strains.   

For ever ceased are now those lightsome Airs,  
Which brisked our Spirits through our raptured Ears:  
For ever ceased are now those tender Lays,  
Which loves sweet Passion moved ten thousand ways  
Lost is that vast Excess of Tuneful Skill,  
That could command the stubborn Notes at will:  
And— can I speak it?— Oh!— the best of Swains  
Is lost, that ever graced Arcadia's Plains;  

* An admirable Song by Mr. Purcell.  Lost is my Quiet, now he rest has found,  
When shall we hear such an enchanting Sound?  
Ah! He was sweet as Love, Ah! He was all  
That we can Charming or Harmonious call.  
Sweetness Divine bloomed in His cheerful Face,  
His Looks bespoke Him blest with every Grace;  
He was, my Thyrsis, more than I can say,  
In His Encomiums I could waste the Day:  
Great Orpheus Lyre charmed fair Eurydice  
To th' Verge of Light, Life and Felicity:  
But who can from the Shades our Orpheus call?  
Nought could but His own moving Notes prevail;  
But stiff those Fingers are, this lower World  
Which moved, and into sweet Confusion hurled:  
For ever is that well tuned, hallowed Breath,  
Which gave Swains Life, stopped by malignant Death;  
All cold and breathless on the Turf he lies,  
Eternal Darkness hath sealed up his Eyes.  
Lament, lament, ye wretched Nymphs and Swains,  
Lament Great Pan deceased, in Mournful Strains.   

Come all ye Shepherds, with sad Dirges, come,  
And sing alternately around His Tomb;  
In doleful Sounds vent your enlarged Woes,  
And let Sighs intermixed short Rests compose:  
While freshest Greene's your Shepherdess' crop,  
Which Honey Sweat and Nectar Juices drop,  
With odorous Herbs His Sepulchre to strew;  
Bring Flowers, ye Nymphs, and Garlands to bestow.  
Ye Muses, deck with Elegies His Hearse,  
Embalm His Name with everliving Verse:  
And when some faded Flower all pale appears,  
Instill new Verdure with a Shower of Tears.  
Come all lament, lament in Mournful Strains,  
Great Pan deceased, late Glory of these Plains.   

But hark!—  
Strange warbling Notes my Ears with pleasure wound;  
Hark! how the Spheres melodiously resound!  
Lo! Cherubs come to convoy Him to go,  
And sing those strains above, he played below:  
Seraphl, t'aid his new Birth, descend and sing,  
So tunefuls Birds do hatch the pregnant Spring.  
And lo! heavens Terras sacred Ministrels throng,  
Some tune their Lyres, and some prepare a Song:  
And now with Golden Harps and Hymns Divine  
They mingle all, and in full Consort join:  
Myriad of Angels with Immortal State,  
On mighty Pan as His Retinue wait;  
Upwards he soars, winged with Harmonious Fire,  
And Earthly Joys completes, and the Celestial Quire.   
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
Pag. 2. lin. 20. for then read thin. L. 25. for Arcadia r. Arcadie●. L. 30. for Swains r. Strains.