And as the paffed by,

With a fcornful glance of her eye,
What a fhame, quoth fhe,
For a fwain muft it be,
Like a lazy loon for to lie!

And doft thou nothing heed
What Pan, our god, has decreed;
What a prize to-day
Shall be given away
To the fweeteft fhepherd's reed?
There's not a single swain
Of all this fruitful plain,
But with hopes and fears,
Now bufily prepares
The bonny boon to gain.
Shall another maiden fhine
In brighter array than thine?
Up, up, dull fwain,
Tune thy pipe once again,
And make the garland mine.
Alas! my love, I cried,
What avails this courtly pride?
Since thy dear defert
Is written in my heart,
What is all the world befide?
To me thou art more gay,
In this homely ruffet grey,

Than the nymph of our green,
So trim and fo fheen,
Or the brighteft queen of May.
What tho' my fortune frown,
and deny thee a filken gown ;
My own dear maid,

Be content with this shade, ind a shepherd all thy own.

See! morn appears; a rofy hue
Steales foft o'er yonder orient blue;
Soon let us meet in trim array,
And frolic out this holiday.

-33

As the plowman homeward goes,

Plodding to the hamlet bound, Giant-like his shadow grows,

Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. The fteer along the meadow ftrays Now the furrow'd talk is done; And village windows blaze,

Glift'ning to the setting fun. Mark him from behind the hill, Streak the purple painted fky : Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye? Where the rifing forest spreads Round the time-decaying dome; To their high-built airy beds, See the rooks returning home! As the lark with vary'd tune, Carols to the ev'ning loud, Mark the mild, refplendent moon, Breaking through a parted cloud! Tripping through the filken grafs, O'er the path-divided dale, See the rofe-complection'd lafs With the well pois'd milking pail. Linnets with unnumber'd notes,

And the cuckow bird with two, Tuning fweet their mellow throats, Bids the fitting fun adieu,

Fond, foolish wretch, (he cry'd)

I love and yet despair;
Purfue, tho' ftill deny'd
By the cool, cruel fair.

The courtier asks a place;
The failor tempts the fea;
The mifer begs increase;
Love only governs me.
Not honour, wealth, or fame,
Can like foft transports move
On earth 'tis blifs fupreme,
And heav'n is but to love.

35

BENEATH a bower of bloom" g May,

Young Damon all complaining lay,
Of Chloe's cold difdain;

In vain the flowers adorn'd the mead,
Neglected lay his crook and reed;
His flocks forfake the plain.
Whither, he cries, ye happy hours,
That gaily frolic'd round these bowers,
Ah! whither take your flight?
Will Chloe deign no more to hear
The ardent vows, the fighs fincere?
That gave fo much delight.

Ye rapt'rous joys, that fir'd my breast,
When by no jealous fear opprefs'd,
Of happier rival's claim;
Where are ye Hed! for ever gone,
Tho' ardours in my bofom burn;
My paffion ftill the fame.

The modeft blush, the down caft look,
Whene'er I of my paffion spoke,
Did ev'ry fear annoy.;
Chearful I tun'd my pipe all day,
My flocks delighted, fought their play ;
All nature fmil'd with joy.
Defpair now only racks my mind,
My Chloe now no more is kind,
But flights my ardent vows;

The fmiles fhe once beftow'd on me,
The vows, that conftant she would be,
On Colin now bestows.

Careful I'll fhun my fellow fwains;
Their youthful Sports, their rural games,
Can yield delight no more:
Retired to the shady grove,

That has my artlefs tales of love,
So often echo'd o'er;..

(But now the fad reverse must know
And only echo to my woe,

Since Chloe's prov'd untrue;)

lone I'll feek the once- blefs'd fhade, Where arm in arm we oft have fray'd, Till death my pains fubdue.

36

BLOW, ye bleak winds, around my head,
And footh my heart-corroding care,
Flash round my brows, ye lightnings red,
And blaft the laurels planted there!
But may the maid, where'er the be,
Think not of my diftress nor me.

May all the traces of our love

Be ever blotted from her mind;
May from her breast my vows remove,

And no remembrance leave behind!
But may the maid, &c.

Oh! may I ne'er behold her more,
For the has robb'd my foul of reft,
Wifdom's affiftance is too poor

To calm the tempeft in my breaft!
But may the maid, &c.

Come, death! O come, thou friendly fleep,
And with my forrows lay me low;
And fhould the gentle virgin weep,
Nor fharp, nor lafting be her woe:
But may the think, where er the be,
No more of my diftrefs nor me.

CO

But let honeft freedom invite,

37

COME, thou queen of penfive air,

In thy fable-footed car,

By two mournful turtles drawn;
Let me meet thee on yon lawn,
With decent veftments wrapt around,
And thy brows with cypress bound!
Quickly come, thou fober dame,
And thy mufing poet claim.

Bear me where thou lov'ft to rove,
In the deep, dark, folemn grove;
Where on banks of velvet green,
Peace with filence ftill is feen;
And leisure at the fultry noon

On flow'ry carpet flings him down,

There, fweet queen! I'll fing thy pleasures
In enthufiaftic measures,

And found thy praifes thro' the vale,
Refponfive to the hollow gale;
The murm'ring rills shall spread it round,
And grottos the wild notes rebound.

38

COME hate thee, my Phillis, I pray,
And let us repair to the grove ;
Where nightingales, chearful and gay,
Attune their fweet accents of love:
So foft is the found of their fong,

'Twill furely delight you, my fair; Then hafte thee, dear charmer, along, And straight to the grove let's repair. For fomething I have to impart,

That labours quite hard in my breaft; So ardent and fierce is the fmart, It robs me of peace and of reft: Tis love, that fond paffion, I fware, By all that is honeft and true; And thou art the fource of my care, I figh and I languish for you. Then come, dearest Phillis, I pray, And ease all your Doriland's pain; Ah! let him be chearful and gay, Nor longer implore you in vain,

For virtue's the path I purfue;

And may happiness ever unite

With thofe that are conftant and true.

39

FILL, O goddess! fill my breast ;

Rife on brightest colours dreft,
And with thy image make me bleft:
Faireft of celeftial birth,
Enliv'ner of the fons of earth,
Source of flowing joy and mirth,'
Enraptur'd let me hear the fong,
Warbl'd from thy fyren tongue;
Painting pleasure ever young.
Soul of blifs! O deign to smile;
Thou can'ft fable cares beguile,
And vanquish mifery and toil.
When disappointment hovers round,
When malice vents the poison'd found,
Erect thy creft, and heal my wound.
'Tis thine, to chear the face of woe,
To bid the tears forget to flow,
And, bluft'ring adverse blafts to blow.
When it-requited lovers pour
Their wailing to the midnight hour,
Thy balm is prevalent to cure.
Tho' Chloe fairer than the fkies,
With angry frowns fhould meet our fighs,
Thou canst insure us half our prize.

O come, bright Hope! poffefs my foul;
For every reign without controul,
And animate and warm the whole.
Devoid of thee, all teems with gloom;
'Tis thou that giv'ft to bear each doom,
In hoary age, and youth's gay bloom.
With thee on wings fublime we foar,
To feek th' irremeable shore;
And dare futurity explore.

A a 3

40

YE fhepherds fo chearful and gay,
Whofe flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to ftray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was fo watchful as 1:

I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is, to have ftrove With the torture of doubt and defire ; What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each ev'ning repel ; Alas! I am faint and forlorn:

I have bade my dear Phillis farewel. Since Phillis youchsaf'd me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I priz'd every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before: But now they are paft, and I figh;

And I grieve that I priz'd 'em no more. But why do I langnish in vain ;

Why wander thus penfively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Whe e I fed on the fmiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have fray'd,

I could wander with pleasure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I though, but it might not be fo, 'Twas with pain that the faw me depart. She gaz d as I flowly withdrew;

The path Icould hardly difcern; So fweetly the bade me adieu,

thought that the bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day,
To vifit fome far-diftant thrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to `repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the refick i bear,

And my fulace wherever I go.

41

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whofe murmur invites ose to fleep?
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.
I feldom have met with with a lofs,
Such a health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a fweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold:
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think the might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,

But I hafted and planted it there.
Oh how fudden the jeffamine ftrove
With the lilack to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What ftrains of wild melody flow?
How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of rofes that blow!
And when her bright form fhall appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join
In a concert fo foft and so clear,

As may not be fond to refign.

I ha

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear.

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed:
For he ne'er could be true fhe averr'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness falls from her tongue,
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,

And the call'd it the fifter of love:
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much her fweet accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever the fay,
Methinks I fhould love her the more.,
Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd when her Corydon fighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Thefe plains and this valley defpife?
Dear regions of filence and fhade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly ftray'd,
If ought, in her abfence, could please.
But where does my Phillida ftray?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The
groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine;
The fwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

O you that have been of her trin,

Come and join in my amorous lays; I could lay down my life for the fwain

That will fing but a fong in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liften the while;
Nay on him let not Phillida frown;
But I cannot allow her to finile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phillis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might the ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets the dreffes his hair,

And his crook is beftudded around;
And his pipe-oh may Phillis beware
Of a magic there is in the found.

'Tis his in mock paffion to glow;

'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, is as cold:
How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phillis's feet.

O Phillis, he whispers, more fair,

More fweet than the jeffamin's flow'r! What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? What is eglantine, after a fhow'r?

Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with defpite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume. Thus glide the foft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Yet I never should envy the fong, Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.