Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky:
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye?
Trudging as the plowmen go
(To the smoking hamlet bound),
Giantlike their shadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.
Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home!
As the lark with varied tune
Carols to the evening loud;
Mark the mild resplendent moon,
Breaking through a parted cloud!
Now the hermit howlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake:
And the blue mist slowly creeps,
Curling on the silver lake.
As the trout, in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs,
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges, in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexion'd lass,
With her well poised milking pail.
Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckoo bird with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu!
PALEMON, seated by his favourite maid,
The silvan scenes with ecstasy survey'd;
Nothing could make the fond Alexis gay,
For Daphne had been absent half the day :
Dared by Palemon for a pastoral prize,
Reluctant, in his turn, Alexis tries.
This breeze by the river how charming and soft!
How smooth the grass carpet! how green!
Sweet, sweet sings the lark! as he carols aloft,
His music enlivens the scene!
A thousand fresh flowerets, unusually gay,
The fields and the forests adorn;
I pluck'd me some roses, the children of May,
And could not find one with a thorn.
The skies are quite clouded, too bold is the breeze, Dull vapours descend on the plain;
The verdure's all blasted that cover'd yon trees,
The birds cannot compass a strain:
In search for a chaplet my temples to bind,
All day as I silently rove,
I can't find a floweret (not one to my mind)
In meadow, in garden, or grove.
I ne'er saw the hedge in such excellent bloom, The lambkins so wantonly gay;
My cows seem to breathe a more pleasing perfume, And brighter than common the day:
If any dull shepherd should foolishly ask,
So rich why the landscapes appear?
To give a right answer, how easy my
Because my sweet Phillida's here.
The stream that so muddy moves slowly along
Once roll'd in a beautiful tide;
It seem'd o'er the pebbles to murmur a song,
But Daphne sat then by my side.
See, see the loved maid, o'er the meadows she hies! Quite alter'd already the scene!
How limpid the stream is! how gay the blue skies! The hills and the hedges how green!
-on the banks by the stream I've piped for the shepherds too long: Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,
Where glory may brighten my song! But Pan bade me stick to my strain, Nor lessons too lofty rehearse; Ambition befits not a swain,
And Phillis loves pastoral verse.
The rose, though a beautiful red,
Looks faded to Phillis's bloom;
And the breeze from the bean-flower bed
To her breath's but a feeble perfume:
The dewdrop so limpid and gay,
That loose on the violet lies,
Though brighten'd by Phoebus's ray,
Wants lustre compared to her eyes.
A lily I pluck'd in full pride,
Its freshness with hers to compare ; And foolishly thought, till I tried, The floweret was equally fair. How, Corydon, could you mistake? Your fault be with sorrow confess'd; You said the white swans on the lake
For softness might rival her breast. While thus I went on in her praise, My Phillis pass'd sportive along : Ye poets, I covet no bays,
She smiled, a reward for my song! I find the god Pan's in the right,
No fame's like the fair one's applause ; And Cupid must crown with delight The shepherd that sings in his cause.
ON THE CIDER BILL BEING PASSED.
FROM orchards of ample extent,
Pomona's compell'd to depart;
And thus, as in anguish she went,
The goddess unburden'd her heart-
To flourish where Liberty reigns,
Was all my fond wishes required;
And here I agreed with the swains
To live till their freedom expired.
Of late you have number'd my trees,
And threaten'd to limit my store:
Alas-from such maxims as these,
I fear that
your freedom's no more.
'My flight will be fatal to May:
For how can her gardens be fine?
The blossoms are doom'd to decay,
The blossoms, I mean, that were mine.
Rich Autumn remembers me well:
My fruitage was fair to behold!
My pears-how I ripen'd their swell!
My pippins!-were pippins of gold!
Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!
She droops as she furrows the soil;
A nectar I shake from my boughs,
A nectar that softens my toil.
When Bacchus began to repine,
With patience I bore his abuse;
He said that I plunder'd the vine,
He said that I pilfer'd his juice.
'I know the proud drunkard denies
That trees of my culture should grow:
But let not the traitor advise;
He comes from the climes of
'Alas! in your silence I read
The sentence I'm doom'd to deplore: 'Tis plain the great Pan has decreed, My orchard shall flourish no more.' The goddess flew off in despair;
As all her sweet honours declined: And Plenty and Pleasure declare, They'll loiter no longer behind.
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