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The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Where stray ye, Muses ! in what lawn or grove,
Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer: 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 said, "Alexis, take this pipe, the same That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name.” But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, For ever silent, since despis’d by thee. Oh! were I made by some transforming power The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy listening ears employ, And I those kisses he receives enjoy.
And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song: The nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring, Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring; Each amorous nymph perfers her gifts in vain, On you their gifts are all bestow'd again. For you the swains the fairest flowers design, And in one garland all their beauties join; Accept the wreath which you deserve alone, In whom all beauties are compris’d in one.
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! Descending gods have found Elysium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade. Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from sheering seek their nightly
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
Alexis knows no sweets but you. O deign to visit our forsaken seats, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade; Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade;
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends. On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
AUTUMN; OR, HYLAS AND AGON.
TO MR. WYCHERLEY.
BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring, Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing.
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 sways us, and whose spirit warms! O, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak’d with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, 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 lilies hang their heads and die. Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia
sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes 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 sighs away! Next Ægon sung, while Windsor-groves ad
mir'd: Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies :