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Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep:
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 filv'ry flood. Ah, filly I more filly than my sheep, Which on thy flow'ry banks, I wont to keep. Sweet are thy banks! oh, when fhall I once more, With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd fhore? When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan Each feature faded, and my colour wan? When shall I see my hut, the fmall abode Myfelf did raise, and cover o'er with fod? Small though it be, a mean and humble cell, Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away, From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray ?
A lewd defire strange lands, and fwains, to know: Ah me! that ever I fhould covet woe. With wand'ring feet unbleft, and fond of fame, I fought I know not what befides a name.
Or, footh to say, did'st thou not hither rome
Small need there was, in random fearch of gain, To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To diftant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
Slander we shepherds count the vileft wrong: And what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite, Make mock of all the ditties I endite. In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill, Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill : In vain thou seek'ft the coverings of the grove, In the cool fhade to fing 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 feems to like my fimple strain : And, while that he delighteth in my fong, Which to the good Menalcas doth belong, Nor night, nor day, fhall my rude mufic ceafe; I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.
THE NO T.
Menalcas, lord of thefe fair, fertile plains, Preferves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns: For him our yearly wakes, and feasts we hold, And choose the fairest firftlings from the fold: He, good to all, who good deferve, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy rural fongs.
First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly,
This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With fome remaining fruit of laft year's hoard, Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night, Sweet herbs and mofs, which gentle fleep invite: And now behold the fun's departing ray, O'er yonder, hill, the fign of ebbing day: With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low..
Mr. Pope's Paftorals next appeared, but in a different dress from thofe of Spenfer, and Phillips; for he has difcarded all antiquated words, drawn his fwains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquifitely harmonious; his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better Paftorals. We fhall infert the eclogue he has infcribed. to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's firft Paftoral.
Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's ftay: Fade ev'ry bloffom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
Go, gentie gales, and bear my fighs along!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd;
Refound ye hills, refound my mournful strain !
Refound ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful ftrain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove : Juft Gods! fhall all things yield returns but love? Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay ! The fhepherds cry, Thy flocks are left a prey.”— Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who loft my heart, while I preferv'd my sheep, Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ? What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love?
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains! I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains. From fhepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forfake mankind, and all the world-but love! I know thee, love! wild as the raging main, More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain : Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff fhall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more refound my strains!
Thus fung the fhepherds, till th'approach of night, The fkies yet blufhing with departing light,