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NICHOLAS RO W E.

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

A Song.

To the Tune of Grim King of the Ghosts.'

DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.

The wind, that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply:
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
'Alas, silly swain that I was;

(Thus sadly complaining, he cried) When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue; When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great;

I listen'd, and cried, when she sung, 'Was nightingale ever so sweet?'

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown;
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?

'What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around: Ab, Colin, thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.

And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd; Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid.

Though through the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
'Twas her's to be false and to change,
'Tis mine, to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found;
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array,
Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of or seen,
Unless when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.'

OF

JOHN SHEFFIELD,

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

AN ESSAY ON POETRY.

all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man so high,
As sacred and soul-moving poesy:

No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much.
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
"Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the sun,

Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound, Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound, Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;

And all in vain these superficial parts Contribute to the structure of the whole, Without a geuius too; for that's the soul: A spirit which inspires the work throughout, As that of nature moves the world about; A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit; • Ev❜n something of divine, and more than wit; Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown, Describing all men, but describ'd by none. Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the brain Can such a vast and mighty thing contain?

When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mourn, Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou

return,

Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away, From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?

Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needful rein.
As all is dullness, when the fancy's bad;
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:
And judgment has a boundless influence
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,
But on the world, on manners, and on men;
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;
Reason is that substantial useful part,

Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart.
Here I shall all the various sorts of verse,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;
But who that task would after Horace do?
The best of masters, and examples too!
Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;

Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain.
'Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease;
But who with that mean shift himself can please,
Without an actor's pride? A player's art
Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.
Yet modern laws are made for later faults,
And new absurdities inspire new thoughts:
What need has satire then to live on theft,
When so much fresh occasion still is left?
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds.
But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear;
'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here:
Defects of witty men deserve a cure;

And those who are so, will ev'n this endure.
First then, of Songs; which now so much abound,
Without his song no fop is to be found;

A most offensive weapon, which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one small ring, and brings the value down:

So songs should be to just perfection wrought; Yet where can one be seen without a fault? Exact propriety of words and thought; Expression easy, and the fancy high;

Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.
Here, as in all things else, is most unfit,
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;
Such nauseous songs by a late author made,
Call an unwilling censure on his shade.

Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy;
But words obscene, too gross to move desire,
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.
On other themes he well deserves our praise;
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Next, Elegy, of sweet, but solemn voice,
And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;
The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains ;
And there too oft despairing love complains:
In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd?
That phoenix-she deserves to be belov'd;
But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.
This to the praise of those who better knew;
The many raise the value of the few.
But here (as all our sex too oft have tried)
Women have drawn my wandering thoughts aside.
Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, or want of wit;

But should this muse harmonious numbers yield, And every couplet be with faucy fill'd;

If yet a just coherence be not made

Between each thought; and the whole model laid
So right, that every line may higher rise,

Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies:
Such trifles may perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd awhile, but never last;

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