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Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep :
From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Against ill-luck, alas! all forcaft fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

Ah me, the while ! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when frelh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filv'ry flood.
Ah, filly I! more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks, I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! oh, when shall I once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amelld shore ?
When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my but, the small abode
Myself did raise, and cover-o'er with fod ?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.

And what enticement charm'd thee, far away,
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray?

A lewd desire strange lands, and swains, to know:
Ah me! that ever I should covet woe.
With wand'ring feet unbleft, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides 'a name.

Or, footh to say, did'it thou not hither rome
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone'is, ever, bare of moss ;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs cross.

Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,

To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe !
My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold green sward, for my nightly bed,
And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain ;
And hard is want to the unpractic'd swain ;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny comparid:
Unkind as hail it falls ; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue :

Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill :
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail ;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail :
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my simple strain :
And, while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease ;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

Τ Η Ε Ν Ο Τ. Menalcas, lord of these fair, fertile plains, Preserves the sheep, and o'er the Mepherds reigns : For him our yearly wakes, and feasts we hold, And choose the fairest firstlings from the fold: He, good to all, who good deserve, shall give Thy hock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy rural songs.


First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to low,
'E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.


This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy Aock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night, Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite : And now behold the sun's departing ray, O'er yonder, hill, the sign of ebbing day : With songs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low...

Mr. Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser, and Phillips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his Swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious ; his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not butter Pastorals. We shall insert the eclogue he has inscribed. to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's first Pastoral.

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægen sung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I fing.

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 (ways us, and whose spirit warms !
Oh, kill'd in nature ! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.

Now setting Phæbus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streakd 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 loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores ;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along !
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny ;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love ?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay :
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow's, and perilh all but she.
What have I said ? where'er my Delia Aies,
Let spring attend, and sudden Aow'rs arise
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentie gales, and bear my fighs along !
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmus, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sun-Shine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay ?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy fooths 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 fighs away!

Next Ægon suog, while Windsor groves admir'd;
Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd.




hills, resound my mournful strain !
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies ;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat ;
While carling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the feet shades glide o'er the duky green.

Resound ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass’d the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs :
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away ;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain ! Now bright Ar&turus glads the teeming grain ;

Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters (well with foods of wine ;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove :
Just Gods! Mall 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 preserv'd my sheep,
Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?
What eyes but hers, 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 flow'ry plains.---
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world—but love!
I know thee, love ! wild as the raging main,
More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain :
Thou wert from Ærna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.

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

Thus sung the shepherds, till th'approach of night, The kies yet blushing with departing light,

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