Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

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

T I T Y R u s.

Th' inhabitants of leas and skies shall change.
And sish on shore, and stags in air shall range,
The banish'd Pdrthian dwell on Jrers brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forfaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the sigure of that godlike youth.

Melieoeus.

But we must beg our bread in climes unknown-, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; And some to fair Oax'u shall be fold, Or try the Lybian heat, or Scythian cold; The rest among the Britons be consin'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 condfcmn'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 sow, On these, on these, our happy sields bestow? Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine. Farewel my pastures, my paternal stock, My fruitsul sields, and my more fruitsul flock \ No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb. 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 shrubs, and aster on the bare Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air! No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew; No. more my song shall please the rural crew: Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world adieu!

T i T Y R. v s.
Tins 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 shall weave a cov'ring for your head:
For iee yon sunny hill, the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Spenserwas the hrst 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 forfaken 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 prosess'd to imitate. In the person of Colin, is represented the author himself; and HobbinoTs inviting him to leave the hilly country, seems to allude to his leaving the North, where, as is mention'd in his lise, he had for some time resided."

Hobbinol.

Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleafant sight From other shades hath wean'd 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 sind: The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,

The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind To th' water's fall their tunes attemper right.

Colin.

O! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state, That paradise hast found which Adam lost.

Here wander may thy flock early or late, Withouten dread of wolves to been ytost;

Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: Bat I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry Gods pursue from coast to coast, Can no where sind, to shroud my luckless pate.

H o B B i H o L.

Then if by me thou list advised be, Forfake the soil, that so doth thee bewitch:

Leave me those hills, where harbroughms to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;

And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, Arid fruitful flocks been every where to fee:

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.

Bot friendly fairies met with many graces, And lighr-sbot nymphs can cFiace the Ting'ring night,

With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass hight,

Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their chrystal faces,

Will pipe and daunce, when Pbabe shineth bright Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Colin.

And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,

In such delights did joy amongst my peers: But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,

My fancy eke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in pasting wears

(As garments doen, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I sing of love and tune my pipe Unto my plantive pleas in verses made:

Tho would I seek for queen-apples unripe, To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,

And loss of her, whose love as lise I wayde> Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.

HOBBINOl.

Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays, Which thou wert wont on wastesul hills to sing,

J more delight, than lark in fommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,

And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays;

Frame to thy song their cheersul cheriping
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.

I faw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they fate around,

Ren after hastily thy silver sound.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show,

They drew a back, as half with shame confound, Shepherd to see, them in their art out-go.

Colin.

Of muses, Jhbbinol, I Cor no skill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,

And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill:
For sith I heard that Pan with Phatbui strove

Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never list presume to Parnass hill,

But piping low, in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest:

With shepherds sits not follow flying fame,
But seed his flocks in sields, where falls him best.

I wote my rimes been rough, and rudely drest;
The sitter they, my caresul case to frame:

Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the fame.

The God of shepherds, Tityrus is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:

He, whilst he lived was the sovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.

Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames, which love within his heart had bred,

And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake,
The while our Sheep about us fasely sed.

Now dead he is, and Heth wrapt in lead,
(O why should death on him such outrage show!

And all his palling skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.

But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned hed,

I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painsul plight,

Fly to my love, wherever that she be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;

As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thon, Mencdcas, that by treachery

Didst undersong my lass to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villiany.

But since I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do seed,

Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed:

And tell the lass, whose slower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere,

That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.

H o B B i N o l.

O! caresul Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow!

Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this ruesul woe .'

But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed flocks, and home apace.

Lest night with stealing steps do you foreslo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.

« AnteriorContinuar »