That fruits and herbage may our farms adorn,
And furrow'd ridges teem with loaded corn.
The year already hath propitious smil'd;
Gentle in spring-time, and in summer mild;
No cutting blasts have hurt my tender dams;
No hoary frosts destroy'd my infant lambs.
If Ceres crown with joy the bounteous year,
A sacred altar to her shrine I'll rear;
A vigorous ram shall bleed, whose curling horns
His wooly neck and hardy front adorns.
Teach me, oh Pan! to tune the slender reed,
No favourite ram shall at thine altars bleed;
Each breathing morn thy woodland verse I'll sing,
And hollow dens shall with the numbers ring.
Apollo! lend me thy celestial lyre,
The woods in concert join at thy desire;
At morn, at noon, at night, I'll tune the lay,
And bid fleet Echo bear the sound away.
Sweet are the breezes when cool eve returns,
To lowing herds, when raging Sirius burns:
Not half so sweetly winds the breeze along
As does the murmur of your pleasing song.
To hear your strains the cattle spurn their food,
The feather'd songsters leave their tender brood;
Around your seat the silent lambs advance,
And scrambling he-goats on the mountain dance.
But haste, Alexis, reach yon leafy shade,
Which mantling ivy round the oaks hath made;
There we'll retire, and list the warbling note
That flows melodious from the blackbird's throat;
Your easy numbers shall his songs inspire,
And every warbler join the general choir.
THE sun the summit of his orb hath gain'd;
No flecker'd clouds his azure path hath stain'd;
Our pregnant ewes around us cease to graze,
Stung with the keenness of his sultry rays;
The weary bullock from the yoke is lead,
And youthful shepherds from the plains are fled
To dusky shades, where scarce a glimmering ray
Can dart its lustre through the leafy spray.
Yon cooling rivulet where the waters gleam,
Where springing flowers adorn the limpid stream,
Invites us where the drooping willow grows,
To guide our flocks and take a cool repose.
To thy advice a grateful ear I'll lend,
The shades I'll court where slender oziers bend;
Our weanlings young shall crop the rising flower,
While we retire to yonder twining bower;
The woods shall echo back thy cheerful strains,
Admired by all our Caledonian swains.
There have I oft with gentle Delia stray'd
Amidst the embowering solitary shade,
Before the gods to thwart my wishes strove,
By blasting every pleasing glimpse of love:
For Delia wanders o'er the Anglian plains,
Where civil discord and sedition reigns.
There Scotia's sons in odious lights appear,
Though we for them have waved the hostile spear;
For them my sire, enwrapp'd in curdled gore,
Breathed his last moments on a foreign shore.
Six lunar months, my friend, will soon expire,
And she return to crown your fond desire.
For her, oh rack not your desponding mind!
In Delia's breast a generous flame's confined,
That burns for Corydon, whose piping lay
Hath caused the tedious moments steal away;
Whose strains melodious moved the falling floods
To whisper Delia to the rising woods.
Oft have I sung the blushes of the morn
When fair Aurora did the east adorn;
But oft'ner sung my constant Delia's praise,
Her blush more comely than Aurora's rays.
But could your sighs increase the floating gales
That favourably swell their lofty sails,
Ne'er should your sobs their rapid flights give o'er Till Delia's presence graced our northern shore.
Though Delia greet my love, I sigh in vain,
Such joy unbounded can I ne'er obtain.
Her sire a thousand fleeces numbers o'er,
And grassy hills increase his milky store,
While the weak fences of a scanty fold
Will all my sheep and fattening lambkins hold.
Ah, hapless youth! although the early Muse
Painted her semblance on thy youthful brows;
Though she with laurels twined thy temples round,
And in thy ear distill'd the magic sound;
A cheerless poverty attends your woes,
Your song melodious unrewarded flows.
Think not, Timanthes, that for wealth I pine,
Though all the Fates to make me poor combine:
Tay, bounding o'er his banks with awful sway,
Bore all my corn and all my flocks away.
Of Jove's dread precepts did I e'er complain?
E'er curse the rapid flood or dashing rain?
Even now I sigh not for my former store,
But wish the gods had destined Delia poor.
'Tis joy, my friend, to think I can repay
The loss you bore by autumn's rigid sway.
Yon fertile meadow where the daisies spring,
Shall yearly pasture to your heifers bring:
Your flock with mine shall on yon mountain feed,
Cheer'd by the warbling of your tuneful reed:
No more shall Delia's ever-fretful sire
Against your hopes and ardent love conspire.
Roused by her smiles, you'll tune the happy lay,
While hills responsive waft your songs away.
May plenteous crops your irksome labour crown, May hoodwink'd Fortune cease her envious frown;
May riches still increase with growing years,
Your flocks be numerous as your silver hairs.
But, lo! the heat invites us at our ease
To court the twining shades and cooling breeze;
Our languid joints will peaceably recline,
And 'midst the flowers and opening blossoms dine.
WHILE yet grey twilight does his empire hold,
Drive all our heifers to the peaceful fold;
With sullied wing grim darkness soars along,
And larks to nightingales resign the song.
The weary ploughman flies the waving fields,
To taste what fare his humble cottage yields;
As bees, that daily through the meadows roam,
Feed on the sweets they have prepared at home.
What awful silence reigns throughout the shade!
The peaceful olive bends his drooping head;
No sound is heard o'er all the gloomy maze;
Wide o'er the deep the fiery meteors blaze.
*Students of Fergusson will observe that the dialogue of this pastoral is set here in a manner different from that in which it appears in the general editions of the poet. According to Dr. Grosart, however-so far Fergusson's most careful editor-the style shown above is the original. It was mis-arranged, Dr. Grosart tells, in Ruddiman's volume of 1773, and in every subsequent edition, until the arrival of his own, in 1851.
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