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My right eye itches; may it lucky prove,
Perhaps I foon fhall see the nymph I love;
Beneath yon pine I'll fing diftinct and clear,
Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear ;
Perhaps may pity my melodious moan;
She is not metamorphos'd into fone.

Hippomenes, provok'd by noble ftrife,
To win a mistress, or to lose his life,
Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way,
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to kay ;
She look'd, the languish'd, all her soul took fire,
She plung'd into the gulph of deep desire. 70

To Pyle from Othry's fage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the’dame
Fair Pero bleft his brother Bias' arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.
Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,

And sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain ;
She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismiss*d him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia bleft,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest.

Fafon Numb'ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once saw, and bleft the happy swain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane.

My head grows giddy, love affects me fore ;
Yet you regard not ; fo I'll fing no more-
Here will I put a period to my care-
Adieu, falfe nymph, adieu ungrateful fair :
Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my

My corse will give the wolves a rich repaft,
As sweet to them, as honey to your tale. 90




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

M E L I B O E U S.
Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse,
You, Tityrus, entertain your fylvan muse,

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

These blessings, friend, a Deity bestow'd ;
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender firstlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often 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 wasteful fire
Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around,
No hoftile arms approach your happy ground.
Far diff'rent is my fate; my feeble

With pains I drive from their forsaken 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 faireft on the green,
And the hoarse raven on the blafted bough
By croaking from the left presag‘d the coming blow.
But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly power
Preservd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

TITY R v s.
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 fires and dams exprefs ;
And so the great I measur'd by the less :
But country-towns, compar'd with her, appear
Like Ihrubs when lofty cypresses are near.

What great occasion calld you hence to Rome ?

Freedom, which came at length, tho' low to come :




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Nor did my fearch of liberty begin
Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my

Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look,
Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely fwain,
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 return'd as empty as I went.

We stood amaz'd to see your mitress mourn,
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 hang:
But now the wonder ceases, fince I fee
She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee:
For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp’ring pines made vows for thy return.

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

M E L I B O E U S.

O fortunate old man ! whose farm remains For you sufficient, and requites your pains, Thorushes overspread the neighb'ring plains, Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields And there the soil a ftony harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold yon bord'ring fence of sallow trees Is fraught with low'rs, the flow’rs are fraught with bees :

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The busy bees, with a soft murm'ring strain,
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain :
While from the neighb'ring rock with rural songs
The pruner's voice the pleafing dream prolongs ;
Stock-doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

T IT Y R vs.
Th' inhabitants of leas and skies Mall change,
And fish on shore, and stags in air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

But we muft beg our bread in climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone ;
And some to fair Oaxis shall be fold,
Or try the Lybian heat, or Scythian cold ;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.
O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn ?
Nor after length of rolling years return ?
Are we condemn'd by fate's unjust decree,
No more our houses and our homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own ?
Did we for these barbarians plant and low,
On these, on these, our happy fields bestow ?
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow!
Now let me graft my pears,

the vine

The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.
Farewel my pastures, my paternal stock,
My fruitful helds, and my more fruitful flock !
No more, my goats, shall I behold


The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow,
The prickly hrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyfs and hang in air!
No more my sheep Thall fip the morning dew;
No more my song shall please the rural crew :
Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world adieu !


This night, at least, with me forget your care ;
Chesnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet ground shall be with leaves o'er-spread,
And boughs iball weave a cov'ring for your head :
For see yon sunny hill, the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Spenser was the prst of our own countrymen, who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his sixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the

ARGUMENT. Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight, by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalcas, another shepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes profess'd to imitate. In the person of Colin, is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's ioviting him to leave the hilly country, seems to allude to his leaving the North, where, as is mention'd in his life, he had for some time refided.”

Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant fight
From other shades hath weand my wand'ring mind :

Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,

So calm, so cool, as no where else I find :
The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,
The bramble-bush, where birds of every

kind To th’ water's fall their tunes attemper right.

0! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy ftate,
That paradise haft found which Adam loft.

Here wander may thy Alock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ytoft ;

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