THE FIRST PASTORAL.

LOBBIN.

I we, O Dorset, quit the city-throng,

To meditate in shades the rural song,

By your command, be present: and, O bring The Muse along! the Muse to you shall sing: Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain, And I forgive the fam'd Sicilian swain.

Begin. In unluxurious times of yore, When flocks and herds were no inglorious store, Lobbin, a shepherd-boy, one evening fair, As western winds had cool'd the sultry air, His number'd sheep within the fold now pent, Thus plain'd him of his dreary discontent; Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs He, solitary, sat to breathe his vows, Venting the tender anguish of his heart, As passion taught, in accents free of art: And little did he hope, while, night by night, His sighs were lavish'd thus on Lucy bright.

“Ab, well-a-day! how long must I endure This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure? Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, Delights in grief, nor any measure knows. And now the Moon begins in clouds to rise; The brightening stars increase within the skies; The winds are hush; the dews distil; and sleep Hath clos'd the eyelids of my weary sheep: I only, with the prowling wolf, coustrain'd All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd, And I, with love. His hunger he may tame; But who can quench, O cruel Love, thy flame? Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair, Up-raise my heedless head, then void of care, 'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game; Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came. Who better seen than I in shepherds' arts, To please the lads and win the lasses' hearts!

Virg. Ecl. vi. 2.

How deftly, to mine oaten-reed so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet!
And, wearied in the dance, how would they year
Some well-devised tale from me to learn!
For many songs and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the loitering Sun adown the sky:
But, ah! since Lucy coy, deep-wrought her spite
Within my heart, unmindful of delight,
The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone,
To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan.
Oh, quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair!
Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair.
Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind,
Though not so fair, she would have prov'd more kind.
O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time,
How flying years impair thy youthful prime!
Thy virgin-bloom will not for ever stay,
And flowers, though left ungather'd, will decay:
The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring!
But beauty faded has no second spring.
My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes;
Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads,
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads,
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chase!
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace:
She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.
No cruel purpose, in my speed, I bear;
'Tis only love; and love why shouldst thou fear?
What idle fears a maiden-breast alarm!
Stay, simple girl; a lover cannot harm.
Two sportive kidlings, both fair-fleck'd, I rear;
Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear:
A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed,
And teach the fondling from my hand to feed:
Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields
Of every dewy sweet the morning yields:
From early spring to autumn late shalt thou
Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow:

And when-But why these unavailing pains? The gifts, alike, and giver she disdains: And now, left heiress of the glen, she 'll deem Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem: Yet, was she born, like me, of shepherd-sire; And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, Or could I half the warmth I feel impart, How would I wander, every day, to find The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind! For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree, How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee! Or! if thou deign to live a shepherdess, Thou Lobbin's flock and Lobbin shalt possess: And, fair my flock, nor yet uncomely 1, If liquid fountains flatter not; and why Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow? O! come, my love; nor think th' employment mean, The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean, To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes, Ere the warm Sun drink-up the cooly dews, While, with my pipe and with my voice, I cheer Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. How would the crook beseem thy lily-hand! How would my younglings round thee gazing stand! Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye, Thence all my sorrow; thence the death I die. O, killing beauty! and O, sore desire! Must then my sufferings, but with life, expire? Though blossoms every year the trees adorn, Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn: Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end, Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend. Sleep, sleep, my flock; for, happy, ye may take Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake." Now to the waning Moon the nightingale, In slender warblings, tun'd her piteous tale; The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief, Pleas'd with so sweet a partner in his grief, Till, by degrees, her notes and silent Night To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite.

COLINET.

Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one smiling hour my youth attend!
Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My lowering sky and wintery months to cheer.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see:
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches sing:
No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng,
With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood.
Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I once more,
With ravish'd eyes, review thine amell'd shore?
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for Peace and me to dwell.

THENOT.

And what enticement charm'd thee, far away From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

COLINET.

A lewd desire, strange lads and swains to know:
Ah, God! that I ever should covet woe!
With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

THENOT.

Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling-stone is ever bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

COLINET.

Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp cold greensward for my nightly bed,
And some slant willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain:
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

THENOT.

Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?

COLINET.

Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I indite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms every vale and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my simple strain:
And, while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

And now behold the Sun's departing ray, O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day: With songs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

THE THIRD PASTORAL

ALBINO.

WHEN Virgil thought no shame the Doric reed
To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed,
With young Augustus' name he grac'd his song:
And Spenser, when amid the rural throng
He carol'd sweet, and graz'd along the flood
Of gentle Thames, made every sounding wood
With good Eliza's name to ring around;
Eliza's name on every tree was found:
Since, then, through Anna's cares at ease we live,
And see our cattle unmolested thrive,
While from our Albion her victorious arms
Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
Like them will I my slender music raise,
And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praise.
Meantime, on oaten pipe, a lowly lay,
As my kids browse, obscure in shades I play:
Yet, not obscure, while Dorset thinks no scorn
To visit woods, and swains ignobly born.

Two valley swains, both musical, both young,
In friendship mutual, and united long,
Retire within a mossy cave, to shun
The crowd of shepherds, and the noon-day sur
A gloom of sadness overcasts their mind:
Revolving now, the solemn day they find,
When young Albino died. His image dear
Bedews their cheeks with many a trickling tear:
To tears they add the tribute of their verse;
These Angelot, those Palin, did rehearse.

ANGELOT.

Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return; And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn. Sent into life, alas! how short thy stay: How sweet the rose! how speedy to decay! Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell, Sad-sounding wide from every village bell? Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd, That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd, Presaging future woe, when, for our crimes, We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times, Fair boast of this fair Island, darling joy Of nobles high, and every shepherd-boy? No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen, Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green, No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood, No birds were heard to warble through the wood. In yonder gloomy grove out-stretch'd he lay His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay; On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd, And o'er his lips the deadly blue display'd: Bleating around him lie his plaintive sheep, And mourning shepherds come in crowds to weep. Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress? As if the grave regarded our distress! The tender virgins come, to tears yet new, And give, aloud, the lamentations due. The pious mother comes, with grief opprest: Ye trees, and conscious fountains, can attest With what sad accents, and what piercing cries, She fill'd the grove, and importun'd the skies,

And every star upbraided with his death,
When, in her widow'd arms, devoid of breath,
She clasp'd her son: nor did the nymph, for this,
Place in her darling's welfare all her bliss,
Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield,
And rule the peaceful empire of the field.
As milk-white swans on streams of silver show,
And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow,
As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
So thou, to thine, an ornament wast born.
Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains,
Th' ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,
And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat;
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;
And thorns and thistles overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled like inorning dew!
And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.
Who, now,
shall teach the pointed spear to throw,
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,
With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar?
Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days,
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,
And add new glories to the British name:
O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest!
The flowery turf lie light upon thy breast;
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground.

PALIN.

No more, mistaken Angelot, complain: Albino lives; and all our tears are vain: Albino lives, and will for ever live, With myriads mixt who never know to grieve, Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear Ever to mourn his absence with a tear; Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy, Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy: And now the royal nymph who bore him deigns The land to rule, and shield the simple swains, While, from above, propitious he looks down: For this, the welkin does no longer frown. Each planet shines, indulgent, from his sphere, And we renew our pastimes with the year. Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes resound: The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd, And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring The laurel green, the smelling eglantine, And tender branches from the mantling vine, The dewy cowslip which in meadow grows, The fountain violet, and the garden rose, Marsh-lilies sweet, and tufts of daffodil, With what ye cull from wood or verdant hill, Whether in open sun or shade they blow, More early some, and some unfolding slow, Bring in heap'd canisters of every kind, As if the summer had with spring combin'd, And Nature, forward to assist your care, Did not profusion for Albino spare. Your hamlets strew, and every public way; And consecrate to mirth Albino's day: Myself will lavish all my little store, And deal about the goblet flowing o'er: Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing, And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring, And Hobbinol his antic gambols play; To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay;

Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue,
Medley'd with daisies white and endive blue,
And honeysuckles of a purple dye,
Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye.
Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush,
The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill,
And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill :
In sprightly concert how they all combine,
Us prompting in the various songs to join:
Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding, try:
And since our ewes have graz'd, what harms if they
Lie round and listen while the lambkins play?

ARGOL.

Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express
Fair Nature's bounties in the fairest dress:
'Tis rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky;
And rapture works the singer's fancy high.
Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze
Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees:
Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay,
Befitting more the music thou canst play.

MYCO.

No skill of music kon I, simple swain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain:
Albeit some deal 1 pipe, rude though it be,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me;

Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill)
Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill,
And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a note, and where to swell.

ARGOL.

Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow,
Should Colinet to me his cunning show:
So trim his sonnets are, I pr'ythee, swain,
Now give us, once, a sample of his strain:
For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay!
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse;
And ask what boon thou willest for thy verse.

MYCO.

Since then thou list, a mournful song I choose:
A mournful song relieves a mournful Muse.
Fast by the river on a bank he sate,
To weep the lovely maid's untimely fate,

Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she, Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he. Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"O woeful day! O day of woe to me!
That ever I should live such day to see!
That ever she could die! O most unkind,
To go and leave thy Colinet behind!
From blameless love and plighted troth to go,
And leave to Colinet a life of woe!"

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me: I clasp'd her too, but Death prov'd over-strong: Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong: Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain? And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain!" Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep; Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh, And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die. Me flock, nor stream, nor winds, nor woes, relieve; She lov'd through life, and I through life will grieve." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair, With downcast look, and with dishevell'd hair, All beat the breast, and wring your hands, and moan; Her hour, untimely, might have prov'd your own: Her hour, untimely, help me to lament; And let your hearts at Stella's name relent."

Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"In vain th' endearing lustre of your eyes
We dote upon, and you as vainly prize.
What though your beauty bless the faithful swain,
And in th' enamour'd heart like queens ye reign;
Yet in their prime does Death the fairest kill,
As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill."

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.
"Such Stella was; yet Stella might not live!
And what could Colinet in ransom give?
Oh! if or Music's voice, or Beauty's charm,
Could milden Death, and stay his lifted arm,
My pipe her face, her face my pipe might save,
Redeeming each the other from the grave."
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Ah, fruitless wish! fell Death's uplifted arm
Nor Beauty can arrest, nor Music charm.
Behold! oh, baleful sight! see where she lies!
The budding flower, unkindly blasted, dies:
Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,
Will she again to life and me return."

Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now,
To weave fresh girlonds for thy Stella's brow?
Nor girlond ever more may Stella wear,
Nor see the flowery season of the year,

VOL. XIII.

Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile, And every toil of Colinet beguile."

Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose; Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose, With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, drest, Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest, If aught can witness: O, ye shepherds, tell, When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well!" Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb, By Stella nurs'd, who wean'd thee from the dam, What heed give I to aught but to my grief, My whole employment, and my whole relief! Stray where ye list, some happier master try: Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

"My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion move,

And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Shall silent hang upon this blasted oak,
Whence owls their dirges sing, and ravens croak:
Nor lark, nor linnet, shall my day delight,
Nor nightingale suspend my moan by night:
The night and day shall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella, and alike to me."

No more, my pipe; here cease we to express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing, And urge the valley with his wail to ring. And now that sheep-hock for my song I crave.

ARCOL.

Not this, but one more costly, shalt thou have, Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear, To speak the giver's name, the month, and year; The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd, And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd.

O, Colinet, how sweet thy grief to hear! How does thy verse subdue the listening ear! Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew, To slake the drought, and herbage to renew: Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which move In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove, Nor valley brook that, hid by alders, speeds O'er pebbles warbling, and through whispering reeds, Nor dropping waters, which from rocks distil, And welly-grots with tinkling echoes fill. Thrice happy Colinet, who can relieve Heart-anguish sore, and make it sweet to grieve! And next to thee shall Myco bear the bell, Who can repeat thy peerless song so well; But see! the hills increasing shadows cast; The Sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste: His weakly rays faint glimmer through the wood, And bluey mists arise from yonder flood.

MYCO.

Bid then our dogs to gather in the sheep. [sleep. Good shepherds, with their flock, betimes should Who late lies down, thou know'st, as late will rise, And, sluggard-like, to noon-day snoring lies, While in the fold his injur'd ewes complain, And after dewy pastures bleat in vain.

I