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Ear, Doddington, the notes that shepherds fing,
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring :
Nor Pan, nor Phæbus tune the shepherd's reed :
From Love alone our tender lays proceed ;
Love warms our fancy with enliv’ning fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires :
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains ;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm’d each ear, and soften'd ev'ry heart :
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his pow'r should reach, and ev'ry shade
Resound the praises of thy fav’rite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert wou'd improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Damon no longer fought the silent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he ftray’d,
But calld the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the ruftick throng.
 Bleft be the hour, he said, that happy hour, When first I own'd my Delia's gentle pow'r ; Then gloomy Discontent and pining Care Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there : Soft wishes there they left, and gay defires, Delightful languors, and transporting fires. Where yonder limes combine to form a shade, These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid ; There she appear'd, on that auspicious day, When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay : She led the dance-heav'ns ! with what grace she mov'd ! Who cou'd have seen her then, and not have lov'd ? I strove not to resist so sweet a flame, But glory'd in a happy captive's name; Nor wou'd I now, cou'd Love permit, be free, But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy ? Can no reverse thy flatt'ring bliss destroy? Has treach'rous Love no torment yet in store ? Or halt thou never prov'd his fatal pow'r ? Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy check! Why figh'd thy heart as if it strove to break ? Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear The plaintive accents of thy fad despair? From Delia's rigour all those pains arose, Delia, who now compassionates my woes, Who bids me Hope ; and in that charming word Has peace and transport to my soul restor’d.
Begin, my pipe, begin the gladsome lay ;
A kiss from Delia shall thy musick pay ;
A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent,
Giv'n with forc'd anger, and disguis’d content:
No laureat wreaths I ak to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire :
I from her lips my recompence require.
Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain,
While ev'ry flow'r of ev'ry sweet they drain :
See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flow'ry couches sleep
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so bleft as I,
If with my fond desires my Love comply:
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bofom dwells more foft repose.
Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms ?
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms ?
A bird for thee in filken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polith'd gold;
From diftant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name ;
In all our woods none boasts fo sweet a note,
Not ev'n the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this ; and cou'd I add befide
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide ;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glitt'ring pride shou'd fine.
But if thy mind no gifts have pow'r to move,
Phæbus himself shall leave th' Aonian grove ;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their fav’rite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd fister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His musick calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love ;
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you
And let her often hear her shepherd's name ;
Shade all my faults from her enquiring fight,
And shew my merits in the faireft light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And ev'ry friend shall claim a diff'rent lay.
But see! in yonder glade the heav'nly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air-
Ah, thither let me fly with eager
Adieu, my pipe, I go my Love to meet-
O may I find her as we parted last,
may each future hour be like the past ! So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed, Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.
HE gods, O Walpole, give no bliss fincere :
Wealth is disturb’d by care, and pow'r by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind,
In gentle Love the sweetest joys we find ;
Yet e'en those joys dire Jealousy molefts,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on truft.
Begin my Muse, and Damon's woes rehearse,
In wildest numbers and disorder'd verse.
On a romantick mountain's airy head
(While browzing goats at ease around him fed)
Anxious he lay, with jealous cares oppress'd ;
Distrust and anger lab’ring in his breast-
The vale beneath a pleasing prospect yields,
Of verdant meads and cultivated fields;
Through these a river rolls its winding flood,
Adorn'd with various tufts of rising wood';