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Mr. CAMPBELL, in his "Life of Spenser," accounts for the fact of there being so few first-rate pastoral writers among the English poets by observing, that "favourable as the circumstances of England have been to the development of the genius in all the higher walks of poetry, they have not been propitious to the humbler pastoral muse. Her trades and manufactures, the very blessings of her wealth and industry, throw the indolent shepherd's life to a distance from her cities and capital, where poets, with all their love of the country are generally found; and impress on the face of the country, and on its rustic manners a gladsome, but not romantic appearance." To Scotland these remarks are not applicable. The wild scenery of that romantic country, and the rustic habits of the peasantry who inhabit the agricultural districts, afford abundant materials for the successful cultivation of pastoral poetry. Hence the faithful and beautiful delineation of the character and pursuits of the Scotch peasantry by ALLAN RAMSAY, which, Mr. CAMPBELL has asserted, "has no parallel in the richer language of England."

The pastoral songs of BURNS, and other Scottish poets, are equal to those of any other age or nation, and will bear competition with the most eminent productions of the Italian muse. The pastoral is either epic or dramatic. The latter is a sort of comedy or tragi-comedy in verse, with songs and odes interspersed. It is an innovation, if not an improvement upon the original form of pastoral writing. Of the tragic kind, the best specimen in English is "Dione" by GAY, the writer of the well-known "Fables." RAMSAY'S "Gentle Shepherd" is the most striking example we have of a national pastoral. It is a beautiful Arcadian drama, containing many fine passages, but disfigured by coarse allusions and descriptions. There are two eminent Italian authors who have also attempted the same species of pastoral composition and succeeded-Tasso, in his "Amynta," and GUARINI in his "Pastor Fido." Of this agreeable class of pastoral comic writing, it has been remarked by JAMIESON, in his "Grammar of Rhetoric and Polite Literature," that "few entertainments can present an assemblage of so many captivating objects-beautiful pictures of nature; the charms of music which touch the heart; characters pleased, cheerful, and happy, engaged in those simple cares and attachments which occupy human life without fatiguing it, and which, being dictated by innocence, and restrained by virtue, gently agitate without distracting the mind: attempts of this sort have accordingly been honoured with the warmest approbation." We have selected some of the prettiest short pastorals from our English poets, which will illustrate the observations transcribed from Dr. BLAIR and Dr. JOHNSON, A fuller account of the origin and history of Pastoral Poetry, with critical notices of the ancient and modern writers who have excelled in it, will be found in "DALZELL'S Lectures on the ancient Greeks," a work con. taining a variety of useful information relating to our most celebrated Poets, Historians, and Philosophers.

HAPPINESS OF A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

BORN, 1564; DIED, 1616.

HAPPINESS OF A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
METHINKS it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;

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years,

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
Oh, yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

BORN, 1568; DIED, 1639.

PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

MISTAKEN mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers;

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering care could never tempest make,

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Save of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic masque or dance,

But of our kids that frisk and prance;
Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green;

Two harmless lambs are butting one another,
Which done, both bleating run each to his mother;
And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Go! let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek;

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;

And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow harvest bears.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.
BORN, 1584; DIED, 1650.

THE HAPPY SHEPHERD.

THRICE, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud fortune with her scorns and fawns:

THE HAPPY SHEPHERD.

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep,
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
For begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent ;
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

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Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease:
Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house nor state torment him:

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content

him.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

BORN, 1586; DIED, 1616.

BORN, 1576; DIED, 1625.

FOLDING THE FLOCKS.

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom:
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty, thievish fox,
Break upon your simple flocks;
To secure yourself from these
Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eyelids: so farewell:
Thus I end my evening knell.

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