As in the cryftal fpring I view my face, Freh rifing blushes paint the wat'ry glass; But fince thofe graces please thy eyes no more, I fhun the fountains which I fought before. Once I was fkill'd in ev'ry herb that grew, And ev'ry plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched thepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy labs, but not to heal thy heart! Let other fwains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear : But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death: He faid-Alexis, take this pipe, the fame That taught the groves my Rofalinda's name : But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder tree, For ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee.

Oh were I made by fome transforming pow'r The captive bird that fings within thy bow'r! Then might my voice thy lift'ning ears employ, And I thofe kiffes he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the fong: The Nymphs, forfaking ev'ry cave and fpring, Their carly fruit and milk-white turtles bring: Each am'rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain, On you their gifts are all beftow'd again. For you the fivains the faireft flow'rs defign, And in one garland all their beauties join : Accept the wreath which you deferve alone, In whom all beauties are compris'd in one.

See what delights in fylvan fcenes appear! Defcending gods have found Elyfium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd, And chafte Diana haunts the foreft-fhade.

Come, lovely nymph, and blefs the filent hours, When fwains from theering feck their nightly bow'rs;

When weary reapers quit the fultry field,
And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breaft the ferpent Love abides.
Here bees from bloffoms fip the rofy dew,
But your Alexis knows no fweets but you.
Oh deign to vifit our forfaken feats,

The mofly fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales hall fan the glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a fhade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs fhall
rife,

And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh how I long with you to pafs my days,
Invoke the Mufes, and refound your praife!
Your praife the birds shall chant in ev'ry grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the pow'rs above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wond'ring forefts foon fhould dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call,
And headlong ftreams hang lift'ning in their fall!
But fee, the fhepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat;
To clofer fhades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods 1. and is there no relief for Love?

But foon the fun with milder rays defcends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends: On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey; By night he fcorches, as he burns by day.

PASTORAL III. AUTUMN.

Adeffed to Mr. Wycherley.

BENEATH the fhade a fpreading beech dif IIvlas and Egon fung their rural lays: [plays This mourn'd a faithless, that an abfent Love; And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove. Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring; Hylas and Egon's rural lays I fing.

charms,

Thqu, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inThe art of Terence, and Menander's fire; [fpire, Whofe fenfe inftructs us, and whofe humour [warms! Whofe judgment fways us, and whofe fpirit Ch, fkill'd in nature! fee the hearts of fwains, Their artlefs paffions, and their tender pains.

Now fetting Phoebus thone ferenely bright, And fleecy clouds were freak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas with melodious moan Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As fome fad Turtle his loft love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I'mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along! For her, the feather'd choirs neglect their song; For her, the limes their pleafing fhades deny For her, the lilies hang their heads and die. Ye flow'rs that droop, forfaken by the fpring; Ye birds that, left by fummer, ceafe to fing; Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove, Say, is not abfence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's ftay;" Fade ev'ry bloffom, wither ev'ry tree, Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but the! What have I faid where'er my Delia flies Let (pring attend, and fudden flow'rs arise; Let op'ning rofes knotted oaks adorn,. And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along! The birds fhall cease to tune their cv'ning fong. The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And ftreams to murmur ere I ceafe to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirty fwain, Not balmy fleep to lab'rers faint with pain, Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine 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 founds: Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleafing phrenfy fooths my Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? [mind! She comes, my Delia comes! Now cease, my lay; And ceafe, ye gales, to bear my fighs away!

Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd; Rehearfe, ye Mules, what yourselves inspir'd.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mourntul strain!
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rife,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the fkies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loofe traces from the field retreat;
While curling fmokes from village-tops are feen,
And the fleet fhades glide o'er the dusky green.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pafs'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,

While the with garlands hung the bending boughs.
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches thine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Juft gods! fhall all things yield returns but love?
Refound, ye hilis, refound my mournful lay!
The fhepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey."
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart while I preferv'd my sheep?
Pan came, and afk'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?
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful ftrains!
I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.
From thepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forfake mankind, and all the world-but Love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee fuck, and favage tigers fed:
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods I adieu, the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff fhail end my pains:
No more, ye hills, no more refound my ftrains!
Thus fung the fhepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blufhing with departing light;
When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry fhade.

PASTORAL IV. WINTER.
To the Memory of Mrs. Tempeft.

Ye gentle Mufes, leave your cryftal spring, Ye weeping Loves, the ftream with myrtles hide, Let Nymphs and Sylvans cyprefs garlands bring; And break your bows as when Adonis died; And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Inferibe a verfe on this relenting ftone: "Let nature change, let heaven and earth deplore! "Fair Daphne 's dead, and love is now no more!"

'Tis done, and nature's various charms decay, See gloomy clouds obfcure the cheerful day! Their faded honours fcatter'd on her bier. Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear, See where on earth the flow'ry glories lie, Ah, what avail the beauties nature wore ? With her they flourish'd, and with her they die. Fair Daphne's dead, and beauty is no more!

For her the flocks refufe their verdant food, The thirfty heifers fhun the gliding flood; The filver fwans her hapless fate bemoan In hollow caves fweet Echo filent lies, In notes more fad than when they fing their own; Silent, or only to her name replies; Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more! Her name with pleasure once the taught the shore;

No grateful dews defcend from ev'ning skies,
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor morning odours from the flow'rs arife,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incenfe yield.
The balmy Zephyrs, filent since her death,
Lament the ceafing of a fweeter breath;
Fair Daphne's dead, and fweetnefs is no more I
Th' induftrious bees neglect their golden ftore;

Shall, lift'ning in mid air, fufpend their wings;
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne fings,
No more the birds fhall imitate her lays,
Or, hufh'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays:
No more the ftreams their murmurs fhall forbear,
A fweeter mufic than their own to hear;
Fair Daphne's dead, and mufic is no more!
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal fhore,

Her fate is whifper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in fighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the filver flood;
The filver flood, fo lately calm, appears
The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore,
Swell'd with new paffion, and o'erflows with tears.
Daphne, our grief, our glory, now no more!

But fee! where Daphne wond'ring mounts on Above the clouds, above the ftarry sky! [high, Eternal beauties grace the fhining scene, Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!

There,

But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd clofe he lies, and meditates the prey:
Secure they truft th' unfaithful field befet,
Till hov'ring o'er 'em fweeps the fwelling net.
Thus (if fmall things we may with great compare)
When Albion fends her eager fons to war,
Some thoughtless town, with eafe and plenty bleft,
Near, and more ncar, the clofing lines inveft;
Sudden they feize th' amaz'd, defenceless prize,
And high in air Britannia's ftandard flies.

See! from the brake the whirring pheafant
fprings,

And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Ah! what avail his gloffy, varying dyes,
His purple creft and fcarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his fhining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breaft that flames with
gold!

Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the fky,
The woods and fields their pleafing toils deny.
To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare
(Beafts, urg'd by us, their fellow beafts purfue,
And learn of man each other to undo):
With flaught'ring guns th'unwearied fowler roves,
When froits have whiten'd all the naked groves;
Where doves in flocks the leaflefs trees o'erfhade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat'ry glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a fhort thunder breaks the frozen fky:
Oft, as in airy rings they kim the heath,
The clam'rous lapwings feel the leaden death;
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring thade, Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, The patient fifher takes his filent ftand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: With looks unmov'd he hopes the fcaly breed, And eyes the dancing cork and bending recd. Our plenteous ftreams a various race fupply: The bright-eyed perch, with tins of Tyrian dye; The filver eel, in fhining volumes roll'd; The yellow carp, in scales bedropt with gold; Swift trouts, diverfified with crimson ftains; And pikes, the tyrants of the wat`ry plains.

Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car; The youth rush eager to the fylvan war, Swarm o'er the lawns, the foreft walks furround, Roufe the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. Th' impatient courfer pants in every vein, And pawing feems to beat the distant plain : Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd, And ere he starts a thousand steps are loft. See the bold youth ftrain up the threat'ning fteep, Rush thro' the thickets, down the valley fweep, Hang o'er their courfers' heads with eager fpeed, And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed. Let old Arcadia boaft her ample plain, Th' immortal huntrefs, and her virgin-train; Nor envy, Windfor! fince thy fhades have feen As bright a Goddefs, and as chafte a Qusen:

Whofe care, like hers, protects the fylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and Emprefs of the main.
Here too, 'tis fung, of old Diana ftray'd,
And Cynthus' top forfook for Windfor-fhade;
Here was the feen o'er airy waftes to rove,
Seck the clear fpring, or haunt the pathiefs grove;
Here arm'd with filver bows, in carly dawn,
Her bufkin'd Virgins trac'd the dewy lawn.

Above the rent a rural nymph was fam‍d, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd (Lodena's fate, in long oblivion caft,

The Mufe fhall fing, and what the fings fhall laft): Scarce could the Goddefs from her nymph be known,

But by the crefcent, and the golden zone.
She fcorn'd the praife of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waift, a fillet binds her hair;
A pointed quiver on her fhoulder founds,
And with her dart the flying deer the wounds.
It chanc'd, as, eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the foreft's verdant limits ftray'd,
Pan faw and lov'd; and, burning with defire,
Purfued her flight; her flight increas'd his fire.
Not half fo fwift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid fky;
Not half fo fwiftly the fierce cagle moves,
When thro' the clouds he drives the trembling
doves;

As from the God fhe flew with furious pace,
Or as the God more furious urg'd the chace.
Now fainting, finking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now clofe behind his founding fteps the hears;
And now his fhadow reach'd her as the run,
fis fhadow lengthen'd by the fetting fun;
And now his fhorter breath, with fuitry air,
Pants on her neck, and faus her parting hair.
In vain on father Thanies the calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid.
Faint, breathlefs, thus the pray'd, nor pray'd in

vain

"Ah Cynthia! ah-tho' banidhi'd from thy train,
"Let me, O let me, to the fhades repair,
"My native thades-there weep, and murmur
She faid, and melting as in tears the lay, [there,”
In a foft filver ftrcain diffolv'd away.
The filver fiream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the haplefs virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where the rang'd before,
In her chafte current oft the Goddefs laves,
And with celeftial tears auginents the waves.
Oft in her glafs the mufing thepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The wat'ry landfkip of the pendent woods,
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forefts paint the waves with green;
Thro' the fair fcene roll flow the ling'ring streams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the
Thames.

Thou, too, great father of the British floods! With joyful pride furvey ft our lofty woods;' Wacre tow'ring oaks their growing honours rear, And future pavics on thy thores appear :

Not