To weep the lovely maid's untimely fate, Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she, Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he. Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"O woeful day! O day of woe to me!
That ever I should live such day to see!
That ever she could die! O, most unkind,
To go and leave thy Colinet behind!
From blameless love, and plighted troth to go,
And leave to Colinet a life of woe!

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

“ And yet, why blame I her! full fain would she
With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me:
I clasp'd her too, but death prov'd over-strong;
Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong:
Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain?
And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain!

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep; Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh, And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die, Me flock nor stream, nor winds nor woes, relieve; She lov'd through life, and I through life will grieve, Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair,
With downcast look, and with dishevell'd hair,
All beat the breast, and wring your hands and moan:
Her hour, untimely, might have prov'd your own:
Her hour, untimely, help me to lament;
And let your hearts at Stella's name relent.

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"In vain th' endearing lustre of your eyes
We doat upon, and you as vainly prize.
What though your beauty bless the faithful swain,
And in th' enamour'd heart like queens ye reign;
Yet in their prime does death the fairest kill,
As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"Such Stella was; yet Stella might not live!
And what could Colinet in ransom give?
Oh! if or music's voice, or beauty's charm,
Could milden death, and stay his lifted arm,
My pipe her face, her face my pipe might save,
Redeeming each the other from the grave.

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

"Ah, fruitless wish! fell death's uplifted arm Nor beauty can arrest, nor music charm.

Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing, And urge the valley with his wail to ring. And now that sheep-hook for my song I crave. Argol.

Not this, but one more costly, shalt thou have, Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear, To speak the giver's name, the month, and year; The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd, And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd. O, Colinet! how sweet thy grief to hear! How does thy verse subdue the listening ear! Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew, To slake the drought, and herbage to renew: Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which move In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove, Nor valley brook, that, hid by alders, speeds

O'er pebbles warbling, and through whispering reeds,

Nor dropping waters, which from rocks distil,
And welly grots with tinkling echoes fill.
Thrice happy Colinet, who can relieve
Heart-anguish sore, and make it sweet to grieve!
And next to thee shall Myco bear the bell,
Who can repeat thy peerless song so well:
But see! the hills increasing shadows cast;
The sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste:

His weakly rays faint glimmer through the wood,
And bluey mists arise from yonder flood.

Myco.

Bid then our dogs to gather in the sheep. Good shepherds, with their flock, betimes should sleep.

Who late lies down, thou know'st, as late will rise,
And, sluggard-like, to noon-day snoring lies;
While in the fold his injur'd ewes complain,
And after dewy pastures bleat in vain.

THE FIFTH PASTORAL.

Cuddy.

In rural strains we first our music try,
And bashful into woods and thickets fly,
Mistrusting then our skill; yet if through time
Our voice, improving, gain a pitch sublime,
Thy growing virtues, Sackville, shall engage
My riper verse, and more aspiring age.

The sun, now mounted to the noon of day,
Began to shoot direct his burning ray;
When, with the flocks, their feeders sought the shade
A venerable oak wide-spreading made:
What should they do to pass the loitering time?
As fancy led, each form'd his tale in rhyme:
And some the joys, and some the pains of love,
And some to set out strange adventures, strove ;
The trade of wizards some, and Merlin's skill,
And whence, to charms, such empire o'er the will.
Then Cuddy last (who Cuddy can excel
In neat device?) his tale began to tell.

"When shepherds flourish'd in Eliza's reign, There liv'd in high repute a jolly swain, Young Colin Clout; who well could pipe and sing, And by his notes invite the lagging spring. He, as his custom was, at leisure laid In woodland bower, without a rival play'd, Soliciting his pipe to warble clear, Enchantment sweet as ever wont to hear Belated wayfarers, from wake or fair Detain'd by music, hovering on in air: Drawn by the magic of th' enticing sound, What troops of mute admirers flock'd around! The steerlings left their food; and creatures, wild By nature form'd, insensibly grew mild. He makes the gathering birds about him throng, And loads the neighbouring branches with his song. There, with the crowd, a nightingale of fame, Jealous, and fond of praise, to listen came: She turn'd her ear, and pause by pause, with pride, Like echo to the shepherd's pipe reply'd. The shepherd heard with wonder, and again,

To try her more, renew'd his various strain:
To all the various strain she plies her throat,
And adds peculiar grace to every note.
If Colin in complaining accent grieve,
Or brisker motion to his measure give,
If gentle sounds he modulate, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats the song:
But so repeats, that Colin half-despis'd
His pipe and skill, around the country priz’d:
And, sweetest songster of the winged kind,
What thanks, said he, what praises, shall I find
To equal thy melodious voice? In thee
The rudeness of my rural fife I see;

From thee I learn no more to vaunt my skill:
Aloft in air she sate, provoking still

The vanquish'd swain. Provok'd, at last, he strove
To show the little minstrel of the grove
His utmost powers, determin'd once to try
How art, exerting, might with nature vie;
For vie could none with either in their part,
With her in nature, nor with him in art.
He draws in breath, his rising breath to fill:
Throughout the wood his pipe is heard to shrill.
From note to note, in haste, his fingers fly;
Still more and more the numbers multiply:
And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change with sweet surprise.
Attentive she doth scarce the sounds retain;
But to herself first cons the puzzling strain,
And tracing, heedful, note by note repays
The shepherd in his own harmonious lays,
Through every changing cadence runs at length,
And adds in sweetness what she wants in strength.
Then Colin threw his fife disgrac'd aside,
While she loud triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Her mighty conquest, and within her throat
Twirls many a wild unimitable note,
To foil her rival. What could Colin more?
A little harp of maple ware he bore:
The little harp was old, but newly strung,
Which, usual, he across his shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful bird, my last farewell,
He said, and learn from hence thou dost excel
No trivial artist: and anon he wound
The murmuring strings, and order'd every sound:
Then earnest to his instrument he bends,
And both hands pliant on the strings extends:
His touch the strings obey, and various move,
The lower answering still to those above:
His fingers, restless, traverse to and fro,
As in pursuit of harmony they go:

Now, lightly skimming, o'er the strings they pass,
Like winds which gently brush the plying grass,
While melting airs arise at their command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty hand
He sinks into the cords with solemu pace,
To give the swelling tones a bolder grace;
And now the left, and now by turns the right,
Each other chase, harmonious both in flight:
Then his whole fingers blend a swarm of sounds,
Till the sweet tumult through the harp rebounds.
Cease, Colin, cease, thy rival cease to vex;

The mingling notes, alas! her ear perplex:
She warbles, diffident, in hope and fear,
And hits imperfect accents here and there,
And fain would utter forth some double tone,
When soon she falters, and can utter none:
Again she tries, and yet again she fails;
For still the harp's united power prevails.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing sung:
She, with the fatal love of glory stung,
Hears all in pain: her heart begins to swell:
In piteous notes she sighs, in notes which tell
Her bitter anguish: he still singing plies
His limber joints: her sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a conqueror, who, before,
No equal through the grove in music bore?
She droops, she hangs her flagging wings, she moans,
And fetcheth from her breast melodious groans.
Oppress'd with grief at last too great to quell,
Down, breathless, on the guilty harp she fell.
Then Colin loud lamented o'er the dead,
And unavailing tears profusely shed,

And broke his wicked strings, and curs'd his skill;
And best to make atonement for the ill,
If, for such ill, atonement might be made,
He builds her tomb beneath a laurel shade,
Then adds a verse, and sets with flowers the ground,
And makes a fence of winding osiers round.
"A verse and tomb is all I now can give;
And here thy name at least, he said, shall live."
Thus ended Cuddy with the setting sun,
And, by his tale, unenvy'd praises won.

Lanquet.

Lanquet.

Once Delia slept on easy moss reclin'd, Her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind: I smooth'd her coats, and stole a silent kiss: Condemn me, shepherds, if I did amiss.

Hobbinol.

As Marian bath'd, by chance I passed by; She blush'd, and at me glanc'd a sidelong eye: Then, cowering in the treacherous stream, she try'd Her tempting form, yet still in vain, to hide.

Lanquet.

As I, to cool me, bath'd one sultry day, Fond Lydia, lurking, in the sedges lay: The wanton laugh'd, and seem'd in haste to fly, Yet oft she stopt, and oft she turn'd her eye. Hobbinol.

When first I saw (would I had never seen!) Young Lyset lead the dance on yonder green; Intent upon her beauties, as she mov'd, Poor heedless wretch! at unawares I lov'd.

Lanquet.

When Lucy decks with flowers her swelling breast,
And on her elbow leans, dissembling rest,
Unable to restrain my madding mind,
Nor herds, nor pasture, worth my care I find.
Hobbinol.

Come, Rosalind, O come! for, wanting thee,
Our peopled vale a desert is to me.
Come, Rosalind, O come! My brinded kine,
My snowy sheep, my farm, and all, are thine.
Lanquet.

Come, Rosalind, O come! Here shady bowers,
Here are cool fountains, and here springing flowers:
Come, Rosalind: here ever let us stay,
And sweetly waste the live-long time away.

Hobbinol.

In vain the seasons of the moon I know, The force of healing herbs, and where they grow: No herb there is, no season, to remove From my fond heart the racking pains of love. Lanquet.

What profits me, that I in charms have skill, And ghosts, and goblins, order as I will, Yet have, with all my charms, no power to lay The sprite that breaks my quiet night and day?

Hobbinol.

O, that, like Colin, I had skill in rhymes,
To purchase credit with succeeding times!
Sweet Colin Clout! who never yet had peer;
Who sung through all the seasons of the year.
Lanquet.

Let me, like Merlin, sing: his voice had power
To free th' 'clipsing moon at midnight hour:
And, as he sung, the fairies with their queen,
In mantles blue, came tripping o'er the green.
Hobbinol.

Last eve of May did I not hear them sing,
And see their dance? And I can show the ring
Where, hand in hand, they shift their feet so light:
The grass springs greener from their tread by night.
Lanquet.

But hast thou seen their king, in rich array,

Fam'd Oberon, with damask'd robe so gay,
And gemmy crown, by moonshine sparkling far,
And azure sceptre, pointed with a star?
Geron.

Here end your pleasing strife. Both victors are;
And both with Colin may, in rhyme, compare.
A boxen hautboy, loud, and sweet of sound,
All varnish'd, and with brazen ringlets bound,
To each I give. A mizzling mist descends
Adown that steepy rock: and this way tends
Yon distant rain. Shoreward the vessels strive;
And, see, the boys their flocks to shelter drive.

EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF DORSET.
Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects which to verse invite.
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.
No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing.
The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the moon in icy vallies howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain :
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear,
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow:
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsully'd froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view
The face of Nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds,which watery marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprize,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,

The brittle forest into atoms flies,

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintery charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,

And journies sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads [meads.
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious

While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.