That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What heed they? They are fpedi
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched straw.
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed;
But, fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing faid;
• But that two-handed engine at the door
• Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more.'
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is pafs'd,
That fhrunk thy ftreams; return, Sicilian Mufe,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gufhing brooks,
On whofe fresh lap the fwart-star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied show'rs,
And purple all the ground with vernal flow'rs.
Bring the rathe primrose that forfaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The mufk-rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the penfive head,
And ev'ry flow'r that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty fhed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ftrew the laureat hearfe where Lycid lies.
For fo, to interpofe a little eafe,
Let our frail thoughts dally with falfe furmife.
Ay me! whilst thee the fhores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the ftormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monftrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion of the guarded mount
Looks tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds! weep no more;
For Lycidas, your forrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor;
So finks the day-ftar in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves,
Where other groves and other ftreams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptial fong,
In the blefs'd kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the faints above,
In folemn troops, and sweet societies,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th' oaks and rills,
While the ftill morn went out with fandals grey,
He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropp'd into the western bay.
At laft he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to frefh woods, and paftures new.
BY MR. BARCLAY.
AWAKE, my fair, the morning springs,
The dew-drops glance around;
The heifer lows, the blackbird fings,
The echoing vales refound.
The fimple fweets would Stella tafte,
That breathing morning yields;
The fragrance of the flow'ry wafte,
And freshness of the fields :
By uplands, and the greenwood-fide,
We'll take our early way,
And view the valley spreading wide,
And opening with the day.
Nor uninftructive shall the scene
Unfold it's charms in vain ;
The fallow brown, the meadow green,
The mountain, and the plain.
Each dew-drop glift'ning on the thorn,
And trembling to it's fall;
Each blush that paints the cheek of morn,
In Fancy's ear fhall call :
O ye, in youth and beauty's pride,
Who lightly dance along;
• While Laughter frolicks at your fide,
• And Rapture tunes your song!
What though each grace around you play,
• Each beauty bloom for you;
Warm as the blush of rifing day,
And sparkling as the dew:
THE lofty beeches, and their facred shade,
their
O'er Penshurst's flow'r-embroider'd vale display'd,'
Have yet their glory: not that Sidney's hand
• Marshall'd in even ranks th' obfequious band;'
Or his fresh garlands in thefe bowers entwin'd,
Whilst all Arcadia open'd on his mind.
But here fweet Waller breath'd his am'rous flame,
And taught the groves his Sacharissa's name;
while gentle Love was by,
and wound the strings so high:"
Still with th' enraptur'd ftrains the vallies ring,
And the groves flourish in eternal spring.
Eternal fpring fmiles in those green retreats,
No more the monarch's, ftill the Mufe's feats ;'
Where crown'd with tow'rs majestick Windsor stands,
And the wide world beneath her feet commands :'
Not that her regal rampires boast the fame
Of each great Edward's, each great Henry's name;
Not that, in days of high-atchiev'd renown,
There Britain's Genius fix'd his awful throne,
Encircled with that glorious blaze, that springs
From conquer'd nations, and from captive kings.
When each proud trophy moulders from the wall,
And e'en the imperial dome itself shall fall;
When those great names, the warrior and the fage,
Lie clouded in the dark historick page;
Then fhall the heav'n-born Mufe (to whom belong
The more than mortal-making pow'rs of fong)
A feat belonging to the Earl of Leicester in the county of Norfolk.
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