Ah! then a victim to the fond deceit,
My heart begins with fierce desires to beat;
To fancy'd sighs I real sighs return,
By turns I languish, and by turns I burn.
Ah! Delia, haste! and here attentive prove,
Like me, that "music is the voice of love:"
So shall I mourn my rustic strains no more,
While pleas'd you listen, who could frown before.
Hertfordshire, Nov. 15, 1754.

R. S.

an action or passion, by its effects on a country life, has nothing peculiar, but its confinement to rural imagery, without which it ceases to be pastoral." This theory the author of the following Eclogues has endeavoured to exemplify.

ΤΟ FEAR.

FROM THE GENTLeman's magazine, July, 1758.

THOU! dread foe of honour, wealth, and fame, Whose touch can quell the strong, the fierce can tame,

Relentless Fear! ah! why did fate ordain
My trembling heart to own thy iron reign?
There are, thrice happy, who disdain thy sway:
The merchant wand'ring o'er the wat'ry way;
The chief serene before th' assaulted wall;
The climbing statesman thoughtful of his fall;
All whom the love of wealth or pow'r inspires,
And all who burn with proud ambition's fires:
But peaceful bards thy constant presence know,
O thou! of ev'ry glorious deed the foe!
Of thee the silent studious race complains,
And learning groans a captive in thy chains.
The secret wish when some fair object moves,
And cautious reason what we wish approves,
Thy Gorgon front forbids to grasp the prize,
And seas are spread between, and mountains rise!
Thy magic arts a thousand phantoms raise,
And fancy'd deaths and dangers fill our ways:
With smiling hope you wage eternal strife,
And envious snatch the cup of joy from life.
O leave, tremendous pow'r! the blameless breast,
Of guilt alone the tyrant and the guest.
Go, and thy train of sable horrours spread,
Where Murder meditates the future dead;
Where Rapine watches for the gloom of night,
And lawless Passion pants for other's right;
Go, to the bad-but from the good recede,
No more the foe of ev'ry glorious deed!

ECLOGUE L

THERON; OR, THE PRAISE OF RURAL LIFE, SCENE, A HEATH:

SEASON-SPRING; TIME-MORNING.

FAIR Spring o'er Nature held her gentlest sway;
Fair Morn diffus'd around her brightest ray;
Thin mists bung hovering on the distant trees,
Or roll'd from off the fields before the breeze.
The shepherd Theron watch'd his fleecy train,
Beneath a broad oak, on the grassy plain.
A heath's green wild lay pleasant to his view,
With shrubs and field-flow'rs. deck'd of varied
hue:

There hawthorns tall their silver bloom disclos'd,
Here flexile broom's bright yellow interpos'd;
There purple orchis, here pale daisies spread,
And sweet May-lilies richest odour shed.
From many a copse and blossom'd orchard near,
The voice of birds melodious charm'd the ear;
There shrill the lark, and soft the linnet sung,
And loud through air the throstle's music rung.
The gentle swain the cheerful scene admir'd;
The cheerful scene the song of joy inspir'd.
"Chant on," he cry'd, "ye warblers on the spray!
Bleat on, ye flocks, that in the pastures play!
Low on, ye herds, that range the dewy vales!
Murmur, ye rills! and whisper soft, ye gales!
How bless'd my lot, in these sweet fields assign'd,
Where Peace and Leisure soothe the tuneful mind;
Where yet some pleasing vestiges remain
Of unperverted Nature's golden reign,
When Love and Virtue rang'd Arcadian shades,
With undesigning youths and artless maids!
For us, though destin'd to a later time,
A less luxuriant soil, less genial clime,
For us the country boasts enough to charm,
In the wild woodland or the cultur'd farm.
Come, Cynthio, come! in town no longer stay;
From crowds, and noise, and folly, haste away!
The fields, the meads, the trees, are all in bloom,
The vernal show'rs awake a rich perfume,
Where Damon's mansion, by the glassy stream,
Rears its white walls that through green willows
gleam,

Annual the neighbours hold their shearing-day;
And blithe youths come, and nymphs in neat array:
Those shear their sheep, upon the smooth turf

laid,

In the broad plane's or trembling poplar's shade;
These for their friends th' expected feast provide,
Beneath cool bow'rs along th' inclosure's side.
To view the toil, the glad repast to share,
Thy Delia, my Melania, shall be there;
Each, kind and faithful to her faithful swain,
Loves the calm pleasures of the pastoral plain.
Come, Cynthio, come! If towns and crowds invite,
And noise and folly promise high delight;
Soon the tir'd soul disgusted turns from these-
The rural prospect, only, long can please!"

ECLOGUE II.

PALEMON; OR, BENEVOLENCE. SCENE, A WOOD-SIDE ON THE BROW OF A HILL: SEASON SUMMER; TIME-FORENOON.

BRIGHT fleecy clouds flew scattering o'er the sky,
And shorten'd shadows show'd that noon was nigh;
When two young shepherds, in the upland shade,
Their listless limbs upon the greensward laid.
Surrounding groves the wand'ring sight confin'd—
All, save where, westward, one wide landscape shin'd.
Down in the dale were neat enclosures seen,
The winding hedge-row, and the thicket green;
Rich marshland next a glossy level show'd,
And through grey willows silver rivers flow'd:
Beyond, high hills with tow'rs and villas crown'd,
And waving forests, form'd the prospect's bound.
Sweet was the covert where the swains reclin'd!
There spread the wild rose, there the woodbine
twin'd;
[ground,
There stood green fern; there, o'er the grassy
Sweet camomile and alehoof crept around;
And centaury red and yellow cinquefoil grew,
And scarlet campion, and cyanus blue;
And tufted thyme, and marjoram's purple bloom,
And ruddy strawberries yielding rich perfume.
Gay flies their wings on each fair flow'r display'd,
And labouring bees a lulling murmur made.
Along the brow a path delightful lay;
Slow by the youths Palemon chanc'd to stray,
A bard, who often to the rural throng,
At vacant hours, rehears'd the moral song!
The song the shepherds crav'd; the sage reply'd:
"As late my steps forsook the fountain side,
Adown the green lane by the beechen grove,
Their flocks young Pironel and Larvon drove ;
With us perchance they'll rest awhile"-The swains
Approach'd the shade; their sheep spread o'er the
Silent they view'd the venerable man, [plains:
Whose voice melodious thus the lay began:
"What Alcon sung where Evesham's vales extend,
I sing; ye swains, your pleas'd attention lend!
There long with him the rural life I led,
His fields I cultur'd, and his flocks I fed.
Where, by the hamlet road upon the green,
Stood pleasant cots with trees dispers'd between,
Beside his door, as waving o'er his head
A lofty elm its rustling foliage spread,
Frequent he sat; while all the village train
Press'd round his seat, and listen'd to his strain.
And once of fair Benevolence he sung,
And thus the tuneful numbers left his tongue :
Ye youth of Avon's banks, of Bredon's groves,
Sweet scenes, where Plenty reigns, and Pleasure
Woo to your bow'rs Benevolence the fair, [roves!
Kind as your soil, and gentle as your air.
She comes! her tranquil step and placid eye,
Fierce Rage, fell Hate, and ruthless Avarice fly.
She comes! her heav'nly smiles, with powerful
charm,
[arm.
Smoothe Care's rough brow, and rest Toil's weary
She comes! ye shepherds, importune her stay!
While your fair farms exuberant wealth display,
While herds and flocks their annual increase yield,
And yellow harvests load the fruitful field;
Beneath grim Want's inexorable reign,
Pale Sickness, oft, and feeble Age complain!

Why this unlike allotment, save to show,
That who possess, possess but to bestow' ?"
Palemon ceas'd." Sweet is the sound of gales
Amid green osiers in the winding vales;
Sweet is the lark's loud note on sunny hills,
What time fair Morn the sky with fragrance fills;
Sweet is the nightingale's love-soothing strain,
Heard by still waters on the moonlight plain!
But not the gales that through green osiers play,
Nor lark's nor nightingale's melodious lay,
Please like smooth numbers by the Muse inspir'd!"-
Larvon reply'd, and homeward all retir'd.

ECLOGUE III.

ARMYN; OR, THE DISCOntented. SCENE, A VALLEY:

SEASON-SUMMER; TIME-AFTERNOON.

SUMMER o'er Heav'n diffus'd serenest blue,
And painted Earth with many a pleasing hue;
When Armyn mus'd the vacant hour away,
Where willows o'er him wav'd their pendent spray.
Cool was the shade, and cool the passing gale,
And sweet the prospect of th' adjacent vale:
The fertile soil, profuse of plants, bestow'd
The crowfoot's gold, the trefoil's purple show'd,
And spiky mint rich fragrance breathing round,
And meadsweet tall with tufts of flowrets crown'd,
And comfry white, and hoary silver-weed,
The bending osier, and the rustling reed.
There, where clear streams about green islands
spread,

Fair flocks and herds, the wealth of Armyn, fed;
There, on the hill's soft slope, delightful view!
Fair fields of corn, the wealth of Armyn, grew;
His sturdy hinds, a slow laborious band,
Swept their bright scythes along the level land:
Blithe youths and maidens nimbly near them pass'd,
And the thick swarth in careless wind-rows cast.
Full on the landscape shone the westering Sun,
When thus the swain's soliloquy begun:

"Haste down, O Sun! and close the tedious day:
Time, to the unhappy, slowly moves away.
Not so to me, in Roden's sylvan bowers,
Pass'd youth's short blissful reign of careless hours;
When to my view the fancy'd future lay,
A region ever tranquil, ever gay.

O then, what ardours did my breast inflame! What thoughts were mine, of friendship, love, and fame!

How tasteless life, now all its joys are try'd,
And warm pursuits in dull repose subside!"
He paus'd his closing words Albino heard,
As down the stream his little boat he steer'd;
His hand releas'd the sail, and dropt the oar,
And moor'd the light skiff on the sedgy shore.

Cease, gentle swain," he said; "no more, in vain, Thus make past pleasure cause of present pain! Cease, gentle swain," he said; "from thee, alone, Are youth's bless'd hours and fancy'd prospects flown? Ah, no!-remembrance to my view restores Dear native fields, which now my soul deplores; Rich hills and vales, and pleasant village scenes Of oaks whose wide arms stretch'do'er daisied greens, And windmill's sails slow-circling in the breeze, And cottage walls envelop'd half with trees

Sweet scenes, where beauty met the ravish'd sight,
And music often gave the ear delight;
Where Delia's smile, and Mira's tuneful song,
And Damon's converse, charm'd the youthful throng!
How chang'd, alas, how chang'd!—O'er all our
plains,

Proud Norval, now, in lonely grandeur reigns;
His wide-spread park a waste of verdure lies,
And his vast villa's glittering roofs arise.
For me, hard fate!-But say, shall I complain?
These limbs yet active life's support obtain.
Let us, or good or evil as we share,

That thankful prize, and this with patience bear."
The soft reproach touch'd Armyn's gentle breast;
His alter'd brow a placid smile express'd.
"Calm as clear ev'nings after vernal rains,
When all the air a rich perfume retains,

:

My mind," said he, "its murmurs driv'n away,
Feels truth's full force, and bows to reason's sway!
He ceas'd the Sun, with horizontal beams,
Gilt the green mountains, and the glittering streams.
Slow down the tide before the sinking breeze
Albino's white sail gleam'd among the trees;
Slow down the tide his winding course he bore
To watry Talgar's aspin-shaded shore.
Slow cross the valley, to the southern hill,
The steps of Armyn sought the distant vill,
Where through tall elms the moss-grown turret rose;
And his fair mansion offer'd sweet repose.

ECLOGUE IV.

LYCORON; OR, THE UNHAPPY. SCENE, A VALLEY:

SEASON-AUTUMN; TIME-EVENING.

THE matron, Autumn, held her sober reign
O'er fading foliage on the russet plain:
Mild Evening came; the Moon began to rise,
And spread pale lustre o'er unclouded skies.
'T was silence all-save, where along the road
The slow wane grating bore its cumb'rous load;
Save, where broad rivers roll'd their waves away,
And screaming herons sought their watry prey-
When hapless Damon, in Algorno's vale,
Pour'd his soft sorrows on the passing gale.

"That grace of shape, that elegance of air,
That blooming face so exquisitely fair;
That eye of brightness, bright as morning's ray,
That smile of softness, soft as closing day,
Which bound my soul to thee; all, all are fled-
All lost in dreary mansions of the dead!
Ev'n him, whom distance from his love divides,
Toil'd on scorch'd sands, or tost on rolling tides,
Kind hope still cheers, still paints, to sooth his pain,
The happy moment when they meet again.
Far worse my lot! of hope bereft, I mourn!-
The parted spirit never can return!"

Thus Damon spoke, as in the cypress gloom He hung lamenting o'er his Delia's tomb. In the still valley where they wander'd near, Two gentle shepherds chanc'd his voice to hear: Lycoron's head Time's hand had silver'd o'er, And Milo's cheek youth's rosy blushes bore. "How mournful," said Lycoron, "flows that strain!

It brings past miseries to my mind again.

| When the blithe village, on the vernal green,
Sees its fair daughters in the dance convene;
And youth's light step in search of pleasure strays,
And his fond eyes on beauty fix their gaze;
Shouldst thou then, lingering midst the lovely train,
Wish some young charmer's easy heart to gain,
Mark well, that reason love's pursuit approve,
Ere thy soft arts her tender passions move:
Else, though thy thoughts in summer regions range,
Calm sunny climes that seem to fear no change;
Rude winter's rage will soon the scene deform,
Dark with thick cloud, and rough with battering
storm!

When parents interdict, and friends dissuade,
The prudent censure, and the prond upbraid;
Think! all their efforts then shalt thou disdain,
Thy faith, thy constancy, unmov'd, maintain
To Isca's fields, me once ill-fortune led;
In Isca's fields, her flocks Zelinda fed:
There oft, when Ev'ning, on the silent plain,
Commenc'd with sweet serenity her reign,
Along green groves, or down the winding dales,
The fair-one listen'd to my tender tales;
Then when her mind, or doubt, or fear, distress'd,
And doubt, or fear, her anxious eyes express'd,
"O no!' said I, 'let oxen quit the mead,
With climbing goats on craggy cliffs to feed;
Before the hare the hound affrighted fly,
And larks pursue the falcon through the sky;
Streams cease to flow, and winds to stir the lake,
If I, unfaithful, ever thee forsake!-'
What my tongue utter'd then, my heart believ'd:
O wretched heart, self-flatter'd and deceiv'd!
Fell Slander's arts the virgin's fame accus'd;
And whom my love had chose, my pride refus'd.
For me, that cheek did tears of grief distain?
To me, that voice in anguish plead in vain?
What fiend relentless then my soul possess'd?
Oblivion hide! for ever hide the rest!
Too well her innocence and truth were prov'd;
Too late my pity and my justice mov'd!"

He ceas'd, with groans that more than words
And smote in agony his aged breast. [express'd;
His friend reply'd not; but, with soothing strains
Of solemn music, sought to ease his pains:
Soft flow'd the notes, as gales that waft perfume
From cowslip meads, or linden boughs in bloom.
Peace o'er their minds a calm composure cast;
And slowly down the shadowy vale in pensive mood
they pass'd.

ELEGIES,

DESCRIPTIVE AND MORAL.

ELEGY I.

WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

STERN Winter hence with all his train removes, And cheerful skies and limpid streams are seen; Thick-sprout ng foliage decorates the groves;

Reviving herbage clothes the fields with green.

Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching months prepare;
Kind Spring's full bounty soon will be display'd;
The smile of beauty ev'ry vale shall wear;
The voice of song enliven ev'ry shade.

Such mine, when first, from London's crowded streets, Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills, O'er new-blown meads that breath'd a thousand By shady coverts and by crystal rills. [sweets,

O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled !

What share I now that can your loss repay, While o'er my mind these glooms of thought are spread,

And veil the light of life's meridian ray?

Is there no power this darkness to remove?
The long-lost joys of Eden to restore?
Or raise our views to happier seats above,
Where fear, and pain, and death shall be no more?

Yes, those there are who know a Saviour's love
The long-lost joys of Eden to restore,
And raise their views to happier seats above,
Where fear and pain, and death, shall be no more:

These grateful share the gifts of Nature's hand; And in the varied scenes that round them shine (Minute and beautiful, or rude and grand) Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.

Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamel'd vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays,
Sports not an insect on the spicy gale,

But claims their wonder, and excites their praise.

For them ev'n vernal Nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the fields adoru;
To them more fair the fairest smile of day,

To them more sweet the sweetest breath of morn.

They feel the bliss that hope and faith supply; They pass serene th' appointed hours that bring The day that wafts them to the realms on high, The day that centres in Eternal Spring.

ELEGY II.

WRITTEN IN THE hot weather, July, 1757.

THREE hours from noon the passing shadow shows,
The sultry breeze glides faintly o'er the plains,
The dazzling ether fierce and fiercer glows,
And human nature scarce its rage sustains.

Now still and vacant is the dusty street,

And still and vacant all yon fields extend, Save where those swains, oppress'd with toil and heat, The grassy harvest of the mead attend.

Lost is the lively aspect of the ground,

Low are the springs, the reedy ditches dry; No verdant spot in all the vale is found, Save what yon stream's unfailing stores supply. Where are the flow'rs, the garden's rich array ? Where is their beauty, where their fragrance fled? Their stems relax, fast fall their leaves away, They fade and mingle with their dusty bed: All but the natives of the torrid zone,

What Afric's wilds, or Peru's fields display, Pleas'd with a clime that imitates their own, They lovelier bloom beneath the parching ray.

Where is wild Nature's heart-reviving song,
That fill'd in genial spring the verdant bow'rs?
Silent in gloomy woods the feather'd throng
Pine through this long, long course of sultry hours.

Where is the dream of bliss by summer brought?
The walk along the riv'let-water'd vale?
The field with verdure clad, with fragrance fraught?
The Sun mild-beaming, and the fanning gale?

The weary soul Imagination cheers,

Her pleasing colours paint the future gay: Time passes on, the truth itself appears,

The pleasing colours instant fade away.

In diff'rent seasons diff'rent joys we place,
And these will spring supply, and summer these;
Yet frequent storms the bloom of spring deface,
And summer scarcely brings a day to please.

O for some secret shady cool recess,

Some Gothic dome o'erhung with darksome trees, Where thick damp walls this raging heat repress, Where the long aisle invites the lazy breeze!

But why these plaints?—reflect, nor murmur more—-
Far worse their fate in many a foreign land,
The Indian tribes on Darien's swampy shore,
The Arabs wand'ring over Mecca's sand.

Far worse, alas! the feeling mind sustains,
Rack'd with the poignant pangs of fear or shame;
The hopeless lover bound in Beauty's chains,
The bard whom Envy robs of hard-earn'd fame;

He, who a father or a mother mourns,

Or lovely consort lost in early bloom; He, whom fell Febris, rapid fury! burns,

Or Phthisis slow leads ling'ring to the tomb

Lest man should sink beneath the present pain; Lest man should triumph in the present joy; For him th' unvarying laws of Heav'n ordain, Hope in his ills, and to his bliss alloy.

Fierce and oppressive is the heat we bear,
Yet not unuseful to our humid soil;
Thence shall our fruits a richer flavour share,
Thence shall our plains with riper harvests smile.

Reflect, nor murmur more-for, good in all,

Heav'n gives the due degrees of drought or rain; Perhaps ere morn refreshing show'rs may fall, Nor soon yon Sun rise blazing fierce again:

Ev'n now behold the grateful change at hand!
Hark, in the east loud blust'ring gales arise;
Wide and more wide the dark'ning clouds expand,
And distant lightnings flash along the skies!

O, in the awful concert of the storm,
While hail, and rain, and wind, and thunder join;
May deep-felt gratitude my soul inform,

May joyful songs of rev'rent praise be mine!

ELEGY III.

WRITTEN IN HARVEST.

FAREWELL the pleasant violet-scented shade,
The primros'd hill, and daisy-mantled mead;
The furrow'd land, with springing corn array'd;
The sunny wall, with bloomy branches spread:

Farewell the bow'r with blushing roses gay;

Farewell the fragrant trefoil-purpled field; Farewell the walk through rows of new-mown hay, When ev'ning breezes mingled odours yield:

1

Of these no more-now round the lonely farms,
Where jocund Plenty deigns to fix her seat;
Th' autumnal landscape op'ning all its charms,
· Declares kind Nature's annual work complete.

In diff'rent parts what diff'rent views delight, Where on neat ridges waves the golden grain; Or where the bearded barley dazzling white, Spreads o'er the steepy slope or wide champaign.

The smile of Morning gleams along the hills, And wakeful Labour calls her sons abroad; They leave with cheerful look their lowly vills, And bid the fields resign their ripen'd load.

In various tasks engage the rustic bands,

And here the scythe, and there the sickle wield; Or rear the new-bound sheaves along the lands, Or range in heaps the swarths upon the field. Some build the shocks, some load the spacious waims, Some lead to shelt'ring barns the fragrant corn; Some form tall ricks, that tow'ring o'er the plains For many a mile, the homestead yards adorn.— The rattling car with verdant branches crown'd, The joyful swains that raise the clam'rous song, Th' enclosure gates thrown open all around,

The stubble peopled by the gleaning throng,