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As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
So thou, to thine, an ornament was born.
Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains,
Th'ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,
And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat;
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;
And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled like morning-dew!
And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.
Who now shall teach the pointed spear to throw,
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,
With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar?
Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days,
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,
And add new glories to the British name.
O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest;
The flowery turf lie light upon thy breast;
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground!
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain:
Albino lives; and all our tears are vain:
Albino lives, and will for ever live;
With myriads mixt, who never know to grieve;
Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear
Ever to mourn his absence with a tear;
Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy,
Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy;
And now the royal nymph, who bore him, deigns
The land to rule, and shield the simple swains,
While, from above, propitious he looks down:
For this, the welkin does no longer frown.
Each planet shines, indulgent, from his sphere,
And we renew our pastimes with the year.
Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes resound:
The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd,
And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring
Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring
The laurel green, the smelling eglantine,
And tender branches from the mantling vine,
The dewy cowslip, which in meadow grows,
The fountain-violet, and the garden-rose,
Marsh-lilies sweet, and tufts of daffodil,
With what ye cull from wood, or verdant hill,
Whether in open sun, or shade they blow,
More early some, and some unfolding slow,
Bring, in heap'd canisters, of every kind,
As if the summer had with spring combin'd,
And nature, forward to assist your care,
Did not profusion for Albino spare.
Your hamlets strew, and every public way;
And consecrate to mirth Albino's day:
Myself will lavish all my little store,
And deal about the goblet flowing o'er:
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing,
And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring,
And Hobbinol his antic gambols play:
To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay:
Nor fail to mention thee in all our cheer,

And teach our children the remembrance dear,
When we our shearing-feast, or harvest keep,
To speed the plough, and bless our thriving she?
While willow kids, and herbage lambs pursue,
While bees love thyme, and locusts sip the dew,
While birds delight in woods their notes to strain,
Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain-

THE FOURTH PASTORAL. MYCO, ARGOL. Myco. This place may seem for shepherd's leisure made, So close these elms inweave their lofty shade; The twining woodbine, how it climbs, to breathe Refreshing sweets around on all beneath; The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread. Through which the springing flower up-rears the Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue, [head: Medly'd with daisies white and endive blue, And honeysuckles of a purple dye, Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye. Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush, The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush, The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill, And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill: In sprightly concert how they all combine, Us prompting in the various songs to join: Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try: And since our ewes have graz'd, what harm if they Lie round and listen while the lambkins play? Argol. Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express Fair nature's bounties in the fairest dress: 'Tis rapture all ! the place, the birds, the sky; And rapture works the singer's fancy high. Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees: Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay, Befitting more the music thou canst play. Myco. No skill of music kon I, simple swain, No fine device thine ear to entertain: Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be, Sufficient to divert my sheep and me; Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill) Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill, And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell, And where to sink a note, and where to swell. - Argol. Ay, Mycol half my flock would I bestow, Should Colinet to me his cunning show: So trim his sonnets are, I pr’ythee, swain, Now give us, once, a sample of his strain: For wonders of that lad the shepherds say, How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay! The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse; And ask what boon thou willest for thy verse. Myco. Since then thou list, a mournful song I chuse: A mournful song relieves a mournful Muse. Fast by the river on a bank he sate,

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 I
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 saint, 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.

Behold I O baleful sight! see where she lies:
The budding flower, unkindly blasted, dies:
Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,
Will she again to life and me return.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress,

“ Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now

To weave fresh girlonds for thy Stella's brow?
No girlond ever more may Stella wear,
Nor see the flowery season of the year,
Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile,
And every toil of Colinet beguile.

Awake, my pipe; in every note express

Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

“Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose; Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose, With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, dress'd, Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest, If aught can witness: O, ye shepherds, tell, When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well ! Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

“Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb, By Stella nurs'd, who wean'd thee from the dam, What heed give I to aught but to my grief, My whole employment, and my whole relief! Stray where ye list, some happier master try: Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I. Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

“My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion move, And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love, Shall silent hang upon this blasted oak, Whence owls their dirges sing, and ravens croak: Nor lark, nor limnet, shall my day delight, Nor nightingale suspend my moan by night: The night and day shall undistinguish'd be, Alike to Stella, and alike to me.” No more my pipe; here cease we to express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

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.


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
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 Mycobear 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.

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.


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 feederssought 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, o: on in 'ond n by the magic of th’ enticing sound, !. o of . admirers flock'd around! ild The steerlings left their food; and creatures, wi By nature form'd, insensibly grew o: thron He makes the gathering birds about o hi go loads the neighbouring branches with his song. And - ightingale of fame, There, with the crowd, a nig listen came: Jealous, and fond of Pro* to liste se with ride She turn'd her ear, and poly . 'a pride, Like echo to the shepherd spipe rep à inia 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 strore 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 sweetsurprise. Attentive she doth scarce the sounds retain; But to herself first cons the puzzling strain, And tracing, heedsul, 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 solemn 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, th y rival cease to vex;

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The mingling notes, alas! her ear perplex:
She warbles, diffident, in hope and fear,
And hits imperfect accents here and there,
And sain 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 ?
Shedroops, she hangs her flagging wings,she moans,
And setcheth 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,
* builds her tomb beneath a laurel shade,
"adds a verse, and sets with flowers the ground,
*"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.



"still the sea behold, how calm the sky!
A dhow, in sportive chase, the swallows fly!
My goats, secure from harm, small tendance need,
While high, on yonder hanging rock, they feed:
And here below, the banky shore along,
Your heifers graze. Now, then, to strive in song
Prepare. As eldest, Hobbinol begin;
And Lanquet's rival verse, by turns, come in.

what chosen pledge they will,
or mazer wrought with skill:
ng, nor wager aught beside;
'Whose the praise, let Geron's lips decide,

To Geron I my voice, and skill, commend, A candid umpire, and to both a friend.


Begin then, boys; and vary well your song:

gin; nor fear, from Geron's sentence, wrong. A boxen hautboy, loud, and sweet of sound, "warnish'd, and with brazen ringlets bound, to the victor give : no mean reward, Isto the ruder village-pipes compar'd.

Hobbinol. The snows are melted; and the kindly rain *nds on every herb, and every grain;

Let others stake Orkid, or lamb

For praise we si


Soft balmy breezes breathe along the sky;
The bloomy season of the year is nigh.
The cuckoo calls aloud his wandering love;
The turtle's moan is heard in every grove;
The pastures change; the warbling linnets sing:
Prepare to welcome in the gaudy spring.
When locusts, in the ferny bushes, cry,
When ravens pant, and snakes in caverns lie,
Graze then in woods, and quit the shadeless plain,
Else shall ye press the Spungy teat in vain.
When greens to yellow vary, and ye see
The ground bestrew’d with fruits of every tree,
And stormy winds are heard, think winter near,
Nor trust too far to the declining year.
Woe then, alack 1 befal the spendthrift swain,
When frost, and snow, and hail, and sleet, and rain,
By turns chastise him, while, through little care,
His sheep, unshelter'd, pine in nipping air.
The lad of forecast then untroubled sees
The white bleak Plains, and silvery frosted trees:
He sends his flock, and, clad in homely frize,
In his warm cot the wintery blast defies.
- Hobbinor.
Full fain, O bless'd Eliza! would I praise
Thy maiden rule, and Albion's golden days:
Then gentle Sidney liv'd, the shepherd'
Eternal blessings on his shade attend
Lanquet. -
Thrice happy shepherds now I for Dorset loves
The country Muse, and our resounding groves,
While Anna reigns: o, ever may she reign :
And bring on earth the golden age again.
I love, in secret all, a beauteous maid,
And have my love, in secret all, repaid;
This coming night she plights her troth to me:
Divine her name, and thou the victor be.
Mild as the lamb, unharmful as the dove,
True as the turtle, is the maid I love:
How we in secret love, I
Divine her name, and I

s friend:

shall not say: give up the day. Hobbinol. P bank my love and I a brook ran murmuring by: der things to me she said; nd tender things repaid, Lanquet. In summer shade, behind the cocking hay, What kind endearing words did she not say ! Her lap, with apron deck'd, she fondly spread, And strok’d my cheek, and lull'd my leaning head. Hobbinol. Breathe soft, ye winds; ye waters, g Shield her, ye trees; Ye swains,

Soft on a cowsli Together lay; A thousand ten And I a thousa

ently flow; ye flowers, around her grow : I beg you, pass in silence by ; My love, in yonder vale, asleep does lie.


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. PHobbinol. When first I saw (would I had never seen 1) Young Lyset lead the dance on yonder green; Intent upon her beauties, as she mov’d, Poor heedless wretch 1 at unawares I lov’d. Lanquet. When Lucy decks with flowersherswelling 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 1 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 2 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 fir,
And azure sceptre, pointed with a star?

Here end your pleasing strife. Both victors ar,
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, 1718.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow.
From streams which northern winds forbid to fo,
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 words,

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 desy, 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 glas-In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glowThe thick-sprung reeds,which watery marshesyieldSeem'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 PineGlaz'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,

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