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Boundless my verse, and roving be my ftrains,
Various as Row'rs on unfrequented plainsi
And thou, Thalia ! darling of my breast,
By whom infpir'd, I fung at Comus? feaft,
While in a ring the jolly rural throng
Have fate and fmild to hear my chearful song,
Be gone, with all thy mirth and sprightly lays !
My pipe no longer now thy pow'r obeys :
Learn to lament, my Muse! to weep and mourri;
Thy springing laurels all to cypress turn;
Wound with thy dismal cries the tender air;
And beat thy snowy breast and rend thy yellow hair :
Far hence, in utmost wilds, thy dwelling chufe ;
Be gone, Thalia! Sorrow is my muse.
• I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
• And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

No more these woods shall with her fight be bless'd,
Nor with her feet these flow'ry plains be press'd;
No more the winds shall with her treffes play,
And from her balmy breath steal sweets away;
No more these rivers chearfully shall pafs,
Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face,
While on their banks the wond'ring flocks have stood,
Greedy of fight, and negligent of food.

No more the nymphs shall with soft tales delight
Her ears, no more with dances please her fight;
Nor ever more shall fwain make song of mirth,
To bless the joyous day that gave her birth:
Loft is that day, which had from her it's light,
For ever lost with her. in endless night;
In endless night, and arms of Death, she lies:
Death in eternal shades has shut Pastora's eyes...

Lament, ye nymphs ! and mourn, ye wretched swains!
Stray, all ye flocks! and desart be, ye plains!
Sigh, áll ye winds! and weep, ye crystal floods !
Fade, all ye flo:v’rs! and wither, all ye woods!

« I mourn

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* I mourn Pastora dead ; let Albion mourn,
• And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

Within a dismal grot, which damps furround,
All cold she lies upon th' unwholesome ground;
The marble weeps, and with a filent pace
It's trickling tears distil upon

her face.
Falsely ye weep, ye’ rocks! and falsely mourn,
For never will you let the nymph return;
With a feign'd grief the faithless tomb relents,
And, like the crocodile, it's prey laments.

O she was heav'nly fair in face and mind!
Never in nature were such beauties join'd:
Without all shining, and within all white;
Pure to the sense, and pleasing to the fight;
Like some rare flow'r, whose leaves all colours yield,
And opening is with sweetest odours fill’d.
As lofty pines o’ertop the lowly reéd,
So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed;
To which excelling height she bore a mind,
Humble as ofers bending to the wind.
Thus excellent she was
Ah, wretched fate! he was, but is no more.
Help me, ye hills and valliés, to deplore !
* I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
. And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn'

From that bless’d earth on which her body lies,
May blooming flow'rs with fragrant sweets arise !
Let myrrha, weeping aromatick gum,
And ever-living laurel, fhade her tomb !
Thither let all th' induftrious bees repair,
Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there!
Thither let fairies with their train resort,
Néglect their revels and their midnight sport;
There in unusual wailings waste the night,
And watch her by the fiery glow-worm's light!

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There may no dismal yew nor cypress grow,
Nor holly-bush, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his neft,
And diftant dens receive each howling beast
Let wolves be gone, be ravens put to flight,
With hooting owls, and bats, that hate the light !

But let the fighing doves their forrows bring,
And nightingales in sweet complainings fing ;
Let swans from their forsaken rivers fly,
And, fick’ning at her tomb, make hafte to die,
That they may help to sing her elegy :
Let Echo, too, in mimick moan deplore,

with me, Paftora is no more !
"I mourn Pastora dead ; let Albion mourn,
* And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

And see, the heav'ns to weep in dew prepare,
And heavy mifts obfcure the burden'd air ;
A sudden damp o'er all the plain is fpread,
Each lily folds it's leaves, and hangs it's head;
On ev'ry tree the blossoms tarn to tears,
And ev'ry bough a weeping moisture bears ;
Their wings the feather'd airy people droop,
And flocks beneath their dewy fleeces Aoop.

The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills
Furrow the brows of all th’impending hills;
The water-gods to floods their riv'lets turn,
And each with streaming eyes fupplies his wanting urn.

The Fauns forsake the woods, the Nymphs the grove,
And round the plain in fad distractions sove ;
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.
With their sharp nails themfelves the Satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.

Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke :


See Pales weeping, too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosom bare.

And see yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears ;
See how the wrings her hands, and beats her breaft,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist !
Hear the sad murmurs of her fighing doves;
For grief they figh, forgetful of their loves!

Lo, Love himself, with heavy woes oppress'd)
See how his forrows swell his tender breast!
His bow he breaks, and wide his arrows Aings,
And folds his little arms, and hangs his drooping wings ;
Then lays his limbs upon the dying grass,
And all with tears bedews his beauteous face:
With tears, which from his folded lids arise ;
And even Love himself has weeping eyes..
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore,

Paftora is no more!
• I mourn Pastora dead; let Albion mourn,
« And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

The rocks can melt, and air in mists can mourn,
And floods can weep, and winds to fighs can turn;
The birds in songs their sorrows can disclose,
And nymphs and swains in words can tell their woes :
But, oh! behold that deep and wild despair
Which neither winds can show, nor floods, nor air.

See the great Shepherd, chief of all the swains,
Lord of these woods and wide-extended plains,
Stretch'd on the ground, and close to earth his face,
Scalding with tears th' already faded grass ;
To the cold clay he joins his throbbing breast,
No more within Pastora's arms to reft!
No more b for those once soft and circling arme
Themselves are clay, and cold are all her charms
Cold are those lips, which he no more muk kiss,
And cold that bosom, once all downy bliss ;

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On whose soft pillows, lull'd in sweet delights,
Hè us’d in balmy sleep to lose the nights.

where is all that love and fondness fled ?
Ah! where is all that tender sweetness laid ?
To dust must all that heav'n of beauty come!
And must Pastora moulder in the tomb!.
Ah, Death! more fierce and unrelenting far
Than wildest wolves or savage tigers are ;
With lambs, and sheep their hungers are appeasid,
But rav'nous Death the Shepherdess has seiz'd.
• I mourn Paftora dead ; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

But see, Menalcas, where a sudden light
With wonder stops my song and strikes my sight!
And where Pastora lies it spreads around,
Shewing all radiant bright the sacred ground;
While from her tomb behold a flame afcends
Of whiteft fire, whose flight to heav'n extends!
On flaky wings it mounts, and quick as fight,
Cuts thro' the yielding air with rays of light;
Till the blue firmament at laft it gains,
And fixing there, a glorious ftar remains :
• Fairest it shines of all that light the skies,
• As once on earth were seen Paftora's eyes.”






N Britain's .ifle, and Arthur's days,
When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,

Liv'd Edwin of the green ;

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