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The nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring,
Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring !
Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestow'd again.
For you the Swains their fairest flowers design,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are comprised in one.
See what delights in silvan scenes appear !
Descending gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When Swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
O deign to visit our forsaken seats, .
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade:
Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
O! how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise!
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the powers above.
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods ! and is there no relief for love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends.
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
THE THIRD PASTORAL, OR
3áplag amo Ziegon.
This pastoral consists of two parts, like the eighth of Virgil:
The Scene, a Hill; the Time, at Sunset.
a FAMoUs AUTHOR OF CoMEDIES; OF WHICH THE MOST CELEBRATED WERE THE “PLAIN DEALER” AND “Countsty WIFE.”
BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays;
This mourn’d a faithless, that an absent love,
And T)elia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and AEgon's rural lays I sing.
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms
Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'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 sighs away ! -
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn
Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along :
For her, the feather'd choirs neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
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 gales, and bear my sighs away!
Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Die every flower, and perish all, but she.
What have I said 7 where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flowers 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 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 sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not showers to larks, nor sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay 7
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds,
Delial each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind
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 AEgon sung, while Windsor groves admired;
Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspired.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjured Doris, dying I complain
Here, where the mountains, lessening as they rise
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat :
While curling smoke from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay !
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day;
Oft on the rind I carved 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 branches 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”— Ah ! what avails it me, the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserved my sheep. Parl came, and ask’d what magic caused my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart' What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move And is there magic but what dwells in love 1
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains ! I’ll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains, Erom shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world—but lovel
I know thee, Love 1 on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born 1
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay !
Parewell, 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.
THE FOURTH PASTORAI, OR
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.
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,
Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!
Behold the groves that shine with silver 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 7
Thames heard the numbers as he flow’d along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.
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 gravel” Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn, And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
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 heaven and earth deplore,
“Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more s”
'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 Daphne'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 their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;