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Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left' by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove;
Say, is not absence death to those who love ?

Go, gentle galės, and bear my sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay :
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Die every flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I said ? Where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise!
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, The wiuds 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 sleep to labourers faint with pain, Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bears my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing phrenzy soothes my mind I Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes !-Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!

Next Ægon sung, while Windsor-groves admir'da Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies : While labourmg oxen, spent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat: While curling smokes from village-tops are seen, And the feet shades glide o'er the dusky green,

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournfullay! Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day :

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Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:-
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain ;
Now golden fruits on loaded brauches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, “Thy flocks are left a prey."Ab! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep! Pan came, and ask'd, " What magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?" What eyes but her's, alas, have pow'r to move! And is there magic, but what dwells in love !

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains ! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains; From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world-but love! I know thee, Love ! on foreign mountains bred, Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed ; Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods; adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains, No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains !

Thus sung the shepherds till the’approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.

WINTER.

PASTORAL IV.-DAPHNE.

To the Memory of Mrs. Tempest.

Lycidas.
THYRSIS! the music of that murmuring spring

Is not so mournful as the strains you sing ;
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky;
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
O sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise !

Thyr. Behold thegroves that shine with siiver frost,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call’d the listening Dryads to the plain ?
Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.

Lyc. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field. Begin : this charge the dying Daphne gave, And said, “ Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!

!” Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn, And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.

Thyr. Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring; Let nymphs and silvans cypress-garlands bring: Ye weeping loves, the stream with myrtles hide, And break your bows, as when Adonis died; And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone : • Let nature change, let Heav'n and earth deplore, Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more !"

'Tis done; and nature's various charms decay, See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day! Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear, Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.

See, where on earth the flowery glories lie,
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah! what avail the beauties nature wore?
Fair Daphpe's dead, and beauty is no more!

For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood ;
The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more sad than when they sing their own:
In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies;
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore;
Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more!

No grateful dews descend from evening skies, Nor morning odours from the flowers arise ; No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field, Nor fragrant herbs the native incense yield. The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath; The' industrious bees neglect their golden store: Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings; No more the birds shall imitate her lays, Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays; No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear, A sweeter music than their own to hear; But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore, Fair Daphine's dead, and music is no more!

Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, And told in sighs to all the trembling trees; The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, Her fate remurmur to the silver flood; The silver flood, so lately calm, appers Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears; The winds and trees and floods her death deplore, Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more!

But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high Above the clouds, above the starry sky! Eternal beauties grace the shining scene, Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!

There while you rest in amaranthine bowers,
Or from those meads select unfading flowers,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
Daphảe, our goddess, and our grief no more !

Lyc.How allthingslisten,whilethy Muse complains!
Such silence waits on Philomela's strains,
In some still evening, when the whisp'ring breeze
Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.
To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,
If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.
Whileplants their shade, or flowers their odours give,
Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live !

Thyr. But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse ? Sharp Borcas blows, and Nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey. Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams and groves; Adieu, ye shepherd's rural lays and loves ; Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye silvan crew; Daphne, farewell; and all the world adieu !

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
PARSON, these things in thy possessing

Are better than the bishop's blessing:
A wife that makes conserves ; a steed
That carries double when there's need;
October store, and best Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea ;
Gazettes sent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd;
A large concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince ;
A chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smoothe thy band in:
The Polyglot-three parts-my text,
Howbeit-likewise-now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint-and Paul,
To sun the whole the close of all.

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