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Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep:
From these good fhepherd's care his flock may keep :
Againft ill-luck, alas! all forcaft fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.


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
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling ftone is, ever, bare of mofs;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs cross.


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,
To hoard up to myself fuch deal of woe!
My fheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold green fward, for my nightly bed,
And some flaunt willow's trunk to reft my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractic'd swain ;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting ftorms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

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.


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,
The briny ocean turn to paftures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
'E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.


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,
Hylas and Egon fung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithlefs, that an absent love,.
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring;
Hylas and Egon's rural lays I fing.

Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense inftructs us, and whofe humour charms,.
Whofe judgment fways us, and whose spirit warms!
Oh, fkill'd in nature! fee the hearts of fwains,
Their artless paffions, and their tender pains.
Now fetting Phoebus fhone ferenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were ftreak'd with purple light;

When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,

Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong:
For her, the limes their pleafing fhades deny;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forfaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by fummer cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love?

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.
What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let fpring attend, and fudden flow'rs arise ;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentie gales, and bear my fighs along!
The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy fleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not fhow'rs to larks, or fun-fhine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay ?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia founds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleafing frenzy fooths my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes !-now cease my lay,
And ceafe ye gales, to bear my fighs away!

Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd;
Rehearse, ye mufes, what yourselves infpir'd.

Refound ye hills, refound my mournful strain !
Of perjur❜d Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rife,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loofe traces from the field retreat;
While curling fmoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Refound ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day :
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While fhe with garlands hung the bending boughs :
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

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,

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