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from whom this favour flow'd: but Melibceus accuses fortune, civil wars, and bids adieu- to his native country. This is therefore a dialogue.

But we are to observe, that the poet is not always obliged to make his eclogue allegorical, and to have real persons represented by the sictitious characters introduced; but is in this respect entirely at his own liberty.

Nor does the nature of the poem require it to be always carried on by way of dialogue; for a shepherd may with propriety sing the praises of his love, complain of her inconstancy, lament her absence, her death, &c. and address himself to groves, hills, rivers, and such like rural objects, even when alone.

We shall now give examples from each of those authors who have eminently distinguish'd themselves by this manner of writing, and introduce them in the order of time in Which they were written.

Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the best critics; and by some, whose judgement we cannot dispute, preser'd to all other Pastoral writers. We shall insert his third Idyl. Hum, not because it is the best, but because it is within our compass, and we are favoured with an elegant version of it by Mr. Fawkes; who will soon oblige the public with an entire tranflation of this favourite author.

Amaryllis: Or the third Idyllium of Theocritus.

To Amaryllis, lovely Nymph, I speed,
Mean while my goats upon the mountains seed:

0 Tityrus tend them with assiduous care,
Lead them to crystal springs, and pastures fair,
And of the ridgling's butting horns beware. 5
Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgpt,
Our secret pleasures in the conscious grott?
Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd;
Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind.

1 whom you call'd your Dear, your Love so late, 10
Say, am I now, the object of your hate?

Say is my form displeasing to your sight?
This cruel love will surely kill me quite.
Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view,
Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late theygrew. 15

Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store;

To-morrow will produce as many more.

Mean while these heart-consuming pains remove,

And give me gentle pity for my love.

Oh was I made by some transforming power

A bee to buzz in your sequester'd bower!

To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound,

And the light leaves that compass you around.

I know thee, love, and to my sorrow sind,

A god thou art, but of the favage kind;

A lioness sure suckled the sell child,

And with his brothers nurst him in the wild;

On me his scorching flames incessant prey,

Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away.

Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart,

Fair is your face, but flints is your heart:

With kisses kind this rage of love appease;

For me, fond Swain! ev'n empty kisses please.

Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear

The flow'ry crown I wove for you to wear,

Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,

And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe.

Ah me! what pangs I seel, and yet the fair

Nor sees my sorrows, nor will hear my prayer.

I'll doss my garments, since I needs must die, 4

And from yon rock, that points its summit high,

Where patient Alfis snares the sinny fry,.

I'll leap, and though perchance I rise again,

You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main.

By a prophetic poppy-leaf Lfound

Your chang'd assection, for it gave no sound

Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay.

But quickly wither'd like your love away.

An old witch brought fad tiding to my ears,

She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers;

For leasing barley in my sields of late,

She told me, I should love, and you should hate!

For you my care a milk white goat supply'd,

Two wanton kids run frisking at her side;

Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacis,

Ha s beg'd, and paid before-hand with a kiss;

And since you thus my ardent passion flight,

Her's they shall be before to-morrow night.

My right eye itches; may it lucky prove,

Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love; 60

Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear,

Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear;

Perhaps may pity my melodious moan;

She is not metamorphos'd into stone.

Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife, 65
To win a mistress, or to lose his lise,
Threw golden fruit in Jtalantas way.
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay;
She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took sire,
She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire. 70

To Pyle from Othr/s sage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the'dame;
Fair Pero blest his brother Biai arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.

Aibnis sed his cattle on the plain, 75
And sea-born Venus lovM the rnral swain r
She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismissed him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest. 80
Jafim flumb'ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once faw, and blest the happy swain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane.

My head' grows giddy, love asfects me sore;
Yet you regard not; so Til sing no more— 85
Here will I put a period to my care—
Adieu, false nymph, adieu ungratesul fair:
Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last
My corse will give the wolves a rich repast,
As sweet to them, as honey to your taste. 90

Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in some places copied, and always imitated with success. As a specimen of his manner we shall introduce his sirst Pastoral, which is generally allowed to be the most persect; and our readers will see that we are obliged to Mr. Dryden for the tranflation.


Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, \Q*, Tityrvt, entertain your sylvan muse.

Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Forc'd from our pleasing sields and native home;
While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves,
And Amaryllis sills the shady groves.

T I t Y R U ».

These blessings, friend, a Deity bestow'd;
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender sirstlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar osten bleed.
He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain,
And so my pipe renew'd the rural strain.


I envy not your fortune, but admire, That while the raging sword and wastesul sire Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far diff'rent is my fate ., my seeble goats With pains I drive from their forfaken cotes: And this you see I scarcely drag along, Who yeaning on the rocks has left her young, The hope and promise of my falling fold, My loss by dire portents the Gods foretold; For, had I not been blind, I might have seen Yon riven oak, the fairest on the green. And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough By croaking from the lest prefag'd the coming blow. Buttelf me, Tityrus, what heav nly power Preserv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?


Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome
Like Mantua, where on market-days we come:
And thither drive our tender lambs from home.
So kids and whelps their sires and dams express;
And so the great I measur'd by the less:
But country-towns, compar'd with her, appear
Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near.


What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome?

Tityrus. Freedom, which came at length, tho' flow to come Nor did my search wf liberty begin

Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin.

Nor Amaryllis would vouchfase a look,

Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke.

Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain,

I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain:

Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought,

And many a cheese to country markets brought,

Yet all the little that I got I spent,

And still retum'd as empty as I went.

M E l I B O E U S.

We stood amaz'd to see your mistressmourn,
Unknowing that she pin'd for your return;
We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long,
For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung:
But now the wonder ceases, since I see
She kept them only, litynu, for thee:
For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return.

T i T y x u s.

What should I do? while here I was enchain'd.
No glimpse of godlike liberty remain'd;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To sind a God so present to my pray'r.
There sirst the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renew'd.
He heard my vows, and gracioufly decreed
My grounds to be restor'd, my former flocks to feed.


O fortunate old man! whose farm remains For you sussicient, and requites your pains, Tho' rushes overspread the neighb'riug plains, Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your sields And there the soil a stony harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor sear a rot from tainted company. Behold yon bord'ring sence of fallow trees Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees:

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