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Uic gelidi fontes, hie mollla prata, Lycori;
Here cooling fountains roll thro' flow'ry meads,
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
Here could I wear my careless lise away,
And in thy arms insensibly decay.
Instead of that, me frantick love detains
'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains:
While you—and can my soul the tale believe,
Far from your country, lonely wand'ring leave
Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive!
Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine,
And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine.
Ah! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid,
J>Ior pointed ice thy tender seet invade! Warton.
He then turns his thoughts on every fide, in quest of something that may solace or amuse him: he propofes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another; and at last finds that nothing will fatissy;
Jam neque Hamadryades rursum, nee earmina nobii
Cut now again no more the woodland maids,
But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the preserence to the first, which is equally natural and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who law his old companion at ease in the shade, while hirrvsclf was driving his little flock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances, misery always utters at the sight of profperity:
Nit f atria sines, 13 iulcia linquimus arva;
Nos patriam fugimus: lu, Tityre, lentus in umbra,
Fcrmosam rtjtnart ioett Amarjllida Jjlvas.
We leave our country's bounds, our much lov'd plains j
We from our country fly, unhappy swains!
You, Tit'ros, in the groves at leisure laid,
Teach Amaryllis' name to every (hade. Wautoic,
His account of the difficulties of his journey, jives a very tender image of pastoral distress:
Et En ipse capellas
Protenus ager ago: bane etiam vix, Titjre, dues:
And lo! sad partner of the general care,
On the bare flints her hapless twin fhe cast,
The descripion of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifserence, has no sense of pastoral poetry:
Fortunate senex, ergo tua rura mantlunt,
Et font es facros, frigus captabis opacum.
Happy old man! then still thy farms restor'd,
No foreign food thy teeming ewes (hall fear,
It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that really happened; and may, therefore, be ofuse to provei that we can always seel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction must give way to truth.
I am, SIR,
Your humble servant,
Numb. 95. Tuesday, OElober 2, 1753.
—— Dula'jxe ar. ime: novitaie teniba. Or Id.
And with sweet novelty your soul detain.
IT is often charged upon writers, that with all their pretensions to genius and discoveries, they do little more than copy one another; and that compositions obtruded upon the world with the pomp of novelty, contain only tedious repetitions of common sentiments, or at best exhibit a transposition of known images, and give a new appearance to truth only by some flight difference of dress and decoration.
The allegation of resemblance between authors, is indisputably true; but the charge of plagiarism, which is raised upon it, is not to be allowed with equal readiness. A coincidence of sentiment may easily happen without any communication, since there are many occasions in which all reasonable men will nearly think alike. Writers of all ages have had the fame sentiments, because they have in all ages had the fame objects of speculation; the interests and passions, the virtues and vices of mankind, have been diversified in different times, only by unessential and casual varieties; and we must, therefore, expect in the works of all thofe who attempt to describe them, such a likeness as we find in