(Tercentenary, 1608-1908) "Stops Of Various Quills."--Lycidas. What Need Of Votive Verse To Strew Thy Laureat Herse With That Mix'D Flora Of Th' Aonian Hill? Or Mincian Vocall Reed, That Cam And Isis Breed, When Thine Own Words Are Burning In Us Still? Bard, Prophet, Archimage! In This Cash-Cradled Age, We Grate Our Scrannel Musick, And We Dote: Where Is The Strain Unknown, Through Bronze Or Silver Blown, That Thrill'D The Welkin With Thy Woven Note? Yes,--"We Are Selfish Men": Yet Would We Once Again Might See Sabrina Braid Her Amber Tire; Or Watch The Comus Crew Sweep Down The Glade; Or View Strange-Streamer'D Craft From Javan Or Gadire! Or Could We Catch Once More, High Up, The Clang And Roar Of Angel Conflict,--Angel Overthrow; Or, With A World Begun, Behold The Young-Ray'D Sun Flame In The Groves Where The Four Rivers Go! Ay Me, I Fondly Dream! Only The Storm-Bird'S Scream Foretells Of Tempest In The Days To Come; Nowhere Is Heard Up-Climb The Lofty Lyric Rhyme, And The "God-Gifted Organ-Voice" Is Dumb.[1]