ments of other poems; and except a few lines in which the author touches upon his own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems appropriated to any time or place, or of which any other use can be discovered than to fill up the poem.

The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be determined of the rest, are sufficient to place their author above the reach of rivalry. The complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is full of such sentiments as disappointed love naturally produces; his wishes are wild, his resentment is tender, and his purposes are inconstant. In the genuine language of despair, he sooths himself a while with the pity that shall be paid him after his death:

Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquiet,
Montibus hæc vestris: soli cantare periti

Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiesc ant,
Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores!

Yes, O Arcadian swains,

Ye best artificers of soothing strains!

Tune

your soft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes, So shall my shade in sweeter rest repose.

O that your birth and business had been mine;

To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine.-WARTON.

Discontented with his present condition, and desirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes himself one of the shepherds. He then catches the idea of rural tranquillity; but soon discovers how much happier he should be in these happy regions, with Lycoris at his side:

Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori:
Hic nemus; hic ipso tecum consumerer avo.
Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis ;
Tela inter media, atque adversos detinet hostes.
Tu procul a patria (nec sit mihi credere) tantum
Alpinas, ah dura, nives, & frigore Rheni
Me sine sola vides. Ah te ne frigora lædant!
Ah tibi ne teneras glacies secet aspera plantas!

Here cooling fountains roll thro' flow'ry meads,
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
Here could I wear my careless life away,
And in thy arms insensibly decay.
Instead of that, me frantic 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,
Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade! WARTON.

He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may solace or amuse him: he proposes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another; and at last finds that nothing will satisfy :

Jam

neque Hamadryades rursum, nec carmina nobis
Ipsa placent: ipsa rursum concedite sylve,
Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores;
Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus,
Scithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquosæ :
Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo,
Ethiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri,
Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori.
VOL. III.

P

But now again no more the woodland maids,
Nor pastoral songs delight-Farewell, ye shades-
No toils of ours the cruel god can change,
Tho' lost in frozen deserts we should range;
Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows,
Endure bleak winter blasts, and Thracian snows;
Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed,
Where the parch'd elm declines his sickening head;
Beneath fierce glowing Cancer's fiery beams,

Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams.
Love over all maintains resistless sway,

And let us love's all-conquering power obey.-WARTON.

But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old companion at ease in the shade, while himself was driving his little flock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances, misery always utters at the sight of prosperity:

Nos patriæ fines, & dulcia linquimus arva ;
Nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra,
Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.

We leave our country's bounds, our much lov'd plains;
We from our country fly, unhappy swains!

You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leisure laid,

Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade.—WARTON.

His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives

a very tender image of pastoral distress:

En ipse capellas

Protenus ager ago: hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco:
Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos,
Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit.

And lo! sad partner of the general care,
Weary and faint I drive my goats afar!
While scarcely this my leading hand sustains,
Tir'd with the way, and recent from her pains;
For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past,

On the bare flint her hapless twins she cast,

The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold!-WARTON.

The description of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry:

Fortunate senex, ergo tua rura manebunt,

Et tibi magna satis; quamvis lapis omnia nudus.
Limosoque palus obducat pascua junco,
Non insueta gravis tentabunt pabula fœtas,
Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia lædent.
Fortunate senex, his inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum.
Hinc tibi, quæ semper vicino ab limite sepes,
Hyblais apibus florem depasta salicti,
Sæpe levi somnum suadebit inire susurro.
Hinc altá sub rupe canet frondator ad auras;
Nec tamen interea rauca, tua cura, palumbes,
Nec
gemere aëria cessabit turtur ab ulmo.

Happy old man! then still thy farms restor'd,
Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board.
What tho' rough stones the naked soil o'erspread,
Or marshy bulrush rear its wat'ry head,

No foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear,
No touch contagious spread its influence here.
Happy old man! here 'mid th' accustom'd streams
And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams;
While from yon willow-fence, thy pasture's bound,
The bees that suck their flow'ry stores around,
Shall sweetly mingle, with the whispering boughs,
Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose:
While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard;
Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird,

Mean while shall cease to breathe her melting strain,
Nor turtles from th' aerial elm to 'plain.-WARTON.

It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that really happened; and may, therefore, be of use to prove, that we can always feel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction must give way to truth.

I am, Sir,

Your humble servant,

DUBIUS.