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THE LINIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARIES
Thy lovely lays here mayft thou freely boast:
And angry Gods pursue from coast to coast,
Then if by me thou list advised be,
Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to fee,
And to the dales refort, where fhepherds rich,
Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch,
But friendly fairies met with many graces,
Do make them mufic, for their more delight;
Will pipe and daunce, when Phabe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in thefe places.
And I, whilft youth, and course of careless years,
In fuch delights did joy amongst my peers:
My fancy eke from former follies move
(As garments doen, which waxen old above)
Tho couth I fing of love and tune my pipe
Tho would I feek for queen-apples unripe,
Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade,
Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays, Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to fing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower fpring
Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
I faw Calliope with mufes moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to found,
Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
But when they came, where thou thy skill didft fhow,
Of mufes, Hobbinol, I con no skill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden fcorn of homely fhepherds quill: For fith I heard that Pan with Phabus ftrove
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift prefume to Parnafs' hill,
But piping low, in fhade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill.
Nought weigh I, who my fong doth praise or blame, Ne ftrive to win renown, or pass the reft:
With fhepherds fits not follow flying fame,
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
The God of fhepherds, Tityrus is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:
He, whilft he lived was the fovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake
Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead,
I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe,
Then should my plaints, caus'd of difcourtefee,
Didft underfong my lafs to wax fo light,
But fince I am not, as I wish I were,
And tell the lafs, whofe flower is woxe a weed, And faultlefs faith is turn'd to faithlefs feere,
That she the trueft fhepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.
O! careful Colin, I lament thy cafe,
But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rife, ye bleffed flocks, and home apace,
Left night with stealing steps do you foreflo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.
By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preferved in his Paftorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are difcarded from polite converfation, may naturally be fup. pofed ftill to have place among the fhepherds, and other rufticks in the country. We have made choice of his fe cond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own bufinefs, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.
Mr. PHILIP s's fecond Paftoral.
Is it not Colinet I lonesome fee
Though blithe their notes, not fo my wayward fate ; Nor lark would fing, nor linnet, in my state. Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born, As they to mirth and mufic, I to mourn. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew, My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Small caufe, I ween, has lufty youth to plain;
But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe,
Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'ft thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedlefs lambs, In loud complaints, require their absent dams.
See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye.
Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one fmiling 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 fun-shine doth appear, My low'ring fky, and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-fcar, too plain I fee: Quite destitute it ftands of fhelter 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 fing: No more, beneath thy fhade, fhall fhepherd's 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.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, When blightning mildews fpoil the rifing corn, Or blafting winds o'er bloffom'd hedge-rows pafs, To kill the promis'd fruits, and fcorch the grafs, Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows, Blood-ftain'd in foul eclipfe, impending woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee ftill.
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill ?