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The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng,
O, Mighty FAN! Who now shall chaunt thy Praise ? And who record thy Fame in tuneful Lays ? Where is that He, of all the Sylvan Swains, Can equal Colin's soft harmonious Strains ? If the dear Subject of his Song was Love, Sweet as the Hybla-Drops his Versos prove: If glorious Liberty the Youth afferts, How did he warm our Souls, and fire our Hearts?
Now ev'ry Maxim which the Shepherd taught
See! where the Nymphs and Swains in Crowds appear, Yew in thcir Hands, their Brows Tad Cypress wear; In solemn State fee two by two they tread, And look with downcast Eyes, and bended Head As if not Colin, but Themselves were dead.
Hark, how the Winds in hollow Accents groan! And humid Pearls diftil from ev'ry Stone; The cooing Turtles their loy'd Elms decline, And Goats forfake thcir Fav'rite flop’ry Tbyme ? The Lambs complaining blcat, the Heifers low, The Ox and Weatoer cease their Cudd to chew : The vocal Grove lainents young Colin dead, For him the Laprel droops, and hangs its verdant Head
Help me, Menalcas, help me to complain,
Like Colin, who can Flora's Sweets display?
Wou'd but relentless Fate our Wishes Aid,
Why, let 'em stray, my Crook no more I'll hold, My Herd's no more no more my Flocks I'll fold, No more will I with Daizy, Pink, and Rose, A Garland for the Queen of May compose, Since Colin's gone, by whom 'twas still confeft, That I, of all the Nymphs, deserv'd it best. The Winds shall useless prove to Fleets at Sea; And Flowers supply no Honey to the Bee, When, Colin, I forget to mourn for Tbee.
If Amaryllis, charm’d by Colin's Verse,
Sacred to the Memory of
N. ROW E, Efq; W
Hile e'er thy Hearse, with fad Surprize,
And folemn Grief the Mufes mourn ; Permit a Stranger's flowing Eyes
To shed their Sorrows round thy Urn.
Jul in the Bloom of all thy Fame,
And Seems, as 'twas thy Choice, to Die.