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The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng,
And prowling Wolves stood liftning to his Song:
The browzing Goats from rocky Clifts descend,
Charm'd with his Voice, the Savage Brutes attend.


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
Occurs afresh, and dwells in ev'ry Thought.
Our Flocks, said he, and feather’d Kind produce
Their diffrent Offspring for their Owner's Use :
For us, the Wood, the Pasture, and the Field,
Their several Grains, and various Flowers yield:
Not PAN himself can our known Rights oppose,
Or Crop without our Leave one single Rose is.
A mutual Duty still on each depends,
We honour N, and PAN our Flock defends.
Thus Colin taught us flavilh Yoaks to hate,
And prize the Freedom of our Rural States from



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.

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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,
To tell to Earth, to Air, and Seas my Pain,
Colin ! the dear loy'd calin ! is no more.
Come, all ye Nymphs, and Colin's Lofs.deplore :
For whom shall we our flow'ry Chaplets weave ?
Or who so well deserves the Lawrel Wreath?
Who now can point thro' all these Groves a Man,
To celebrate the Birth of mighty PAN?


Like Colin, who can Flora's Sweets display?
Or paint the gawdy Treasures of her May?
Or who, like him, can tune the Oaten Reed?
Or tread with such a Grace th' enameld Mead?
Mourn, all ye Nymphs, your Tears incelant shed,
Your Tribute's all too poor for him that's Dead.


Wou'd but relentless Fate our Wishes Aid,
And give to Substance back his Airy Shade,
As Pluto once Euridice of old,
A Tale I well remember Colin told,
To purchase that, my Tears like thine Sou'd flow,
But this is fruitless Grief, and pageant Woe.
Hark, Amaryllis hark! Thy bleating Lambs
Amongst the Brakes have lost their Udder'd Dams :
Hafte to retrieve them e'er too far they tray.
And fall to hungry Wolves an easy Prey.


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,
Can shed rich Floods of Tears upon his Hearse,
Who then can guess the Pain, the anxious Throws
Which the dear Partner of his Pleasure knows?
What Agonies of Woe rend Daphne's Breast ?
She whom he loyd--and Me who lov’d him beft !
Methinks I hear her to her Babe complain,
The only Reliet of her darling Swain :
The Child Me teils his ev'ry Art and Grace,
And with her Tears bedews the Infant's Face ;
Whilst the poor Babe, unknowing of her Cares,
Cooes in her Face, and smiles at all her Tears.

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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,
· Then to affert thy Native Sky;
Absolves Impartial Heaven from Blame,

And Seems, as 'twas thy Choice, to Die.

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