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Lace by this, befides the general moral of inno cence and fimplicity, which is common to other authors of paftoral, he has one peculiar to himself; he compares human life to the feveral feasons, and at once exposes to his readers a view of the great and little worlds, in their various changes and afpects. Yet the fcrupulous divifion of his paftorals into months, has obliged him either to repeat the fame description, in other words, for three months together; or, when it was exhausted before, entirely to omit it: whence it comes to pafs that fome of his eclogues (as the fixth, eighth, and tenth, for example) have nothing but their titles to diftinguith them. The reason is evident, because the year has not that variety in it to furpifh every month with a particular description, as it may every feafon.

Of the following eclogues I fhall only fay, that these four comprehend all the fubjects which the critics upon Theocritus and Virgil will allow to be fit for paftoral: That they have as much va riety of defcription, in respect of the feveral feafons, as Spenfer's: That, in order to add to this variety, the feveral times of the day are observed, the rural employments in each season or time of day, and the rural scenes or places proper to fuch employments; not without fome regard to the feveral ages of man, and the different paffions proper to each age.

But after all, if they have any merit, it is to be attributed to fome good old authors, whose works as I had leisure to ftudy, fo, I hope, I have not wanted care to imitate.

PASTORALS.

SPRIN G.

THE FIRST PASTORAL, OR DAMON.

TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL,

FIRST in these fields I try the fylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windfor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy facred fpring,
While on thy banks Sicilian mufes fing;
Let vernal airs through trembling ofiers play,
And Albion's cliffs refound the rural lay.

Youth at, too wife for pride, too good for power,

Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And, carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illuftriously are loft!
O let my mufe her flender reed inspire,
Till in your native fhades you tune the lyre :
So when the nightingale to reft removes,
The thrush may chant to the forfaken groves,
But charm'd to filence, liftens while the fings,
And all th' aërial audience clap their wings.

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DAPHNIS.

And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines, And swelling clusters bend the curling vines : Four figures rifing from the work appear, The various feasons of the rolling year; And what is that, which binds the radiant fky, Where twelve fair figns in beauteous order lie? 40

DAMON.

Then fing by turns, by turns the mufes fing; Now hawthorns bloffom, now the daifies spring, Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the

ground;

Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.

STREPHON.

Inspire me, Phœbus, in my Delia's praise, With Waller's ftrains, or Granville's moving lays! A milk-white bull fhall at your altars ftand, That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.

DAPHNIS.

O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes; 50 No lambs or fheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, fhall be the shepherd's heart.

STREPHON.

Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then, hid in fhades, eludes her eager fwain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found.

DAPHNIS,

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, She runs, but hopes the does not run unfeen; While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes! 60

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 36. And clusters lurk beneath the curling vines.

Ver. 49. Originally thus in the MS.
Pan, let my numbers equal Strephon's lays,
Of Parian ftone thy flatue will I raise;
But if I conquer, and augment my fold,
Thy Parian ftatue shall be chang'd to gold.

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30

Where ftray ye, mufes, in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In thofe fair fields where facred Ifis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the cryflal fpring I view my face, Fresh rifing blushes paint the watery glass; But fince thofe graces please thy eyes no more, i fhun the fountains which I fought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched fhepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! Let other fwains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer: But nigh yon' mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death: 40' He faid; Alexis, take this pipe. the fame That taught the groves my Rofalinda's name : But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder tree, For ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee.

O! were I made by fome transforming power The captive bird that fings within thy bower! Then might my voice thy liftening ears employ, And I thofe kiffes he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the fong: 50 The nymphs, forfaking every cave and fpring, Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring!

VARIATIONS. Ver. 27.

Oft in the crystal spring I caft a view,
And equall'd Hylas, if the glass be true;
But fince thofe graces meet my eyes no more,
1 hun, &c.

Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestow'd again,
For you the swains the fairest flowers defign,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are compris'd in one.

See what delights in fylvan fcenes appear!
Defcending Gods have found Elyfium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When fwains from theering feek their nightly
bowers;

70

When weary reapers quit the fultry field,
And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the ferpent Love abides.
Here bees from bloffoms fip the rofy dew,
But your Alexis knows no fweets but you.
Oh deign to visit our forfaken seats,
The moffy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales fhall fan the glade;
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blufhing flowers fhall rife,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! how long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the mufes, and refound your praise !
Your praise the birds fhall chant in every grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the powers above. 80
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forefts foon fhould dance again,
l'he moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong ftreams hang liftening in their fall!

But fee, the shepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat,
To clofer fhades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods. and is there no relief for love!
But foon the fun with milder rays defcends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends :
On me love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he fcorches, as he burns by day.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 79. 80.

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Your praife the tuneful birds to heaven shall bear, And listening wolves grow milder as they hear.

So the verfes were originally written; but the author, young as he was, fon found the abfurdity, which Spenfer himself overlooked, of introducing wolves into England.

Ver. 91. Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay.

AUTUM N.

THE THIRD PASTORAL, OR HYLAS AND GON.

TO MR. WYCHERLY.

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Now fetting Phoebus fhone ferenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were freak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains
groan.

Go, gentle gales, and beár my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey,
As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the foundingfhores; 20
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong;
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye flowers that droop, forfaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, ceafe to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade every bloffom, wither ever tree,
Die every flower, and perish all, but the.
What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let fpring attend, and fudden flowers arife!
Let opening rofes knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

Not fhowers to larks, or funshine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me

50

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia founds,
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye powers, what pleafing frenzy foothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes-Now ceafe my lay,
And ceafe, ye gales, to bear my fighs away! [mir'd;

Next Egon fung, while Windsor groves ad-
Rehearse, ye mufes, what yourselves infpir'd.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain !
Of perjur❜d Doris, dying I complain;
Here where the mountains, leffening as they rife,

Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat;
While curling fmokes from village tops are feen,
And the fleet fhades glide o'er the dusky green.

60

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay !
Beneath yon' poplar oft we pais'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
While the with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain :
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
30 Juft gods! fhall all things yield returns but love!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, " Thy flocks are left a prey."
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart while I preferv'd my fheep? 80
Pan came, and afk'd, what magic caus'd my imart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
The birds fhall cease to tune their evening song, 40
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And ftreams to murmur, ere I ceafe to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy fleep to labourers faint with pain,
VOL. VIII.

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