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Four figures rising from the work appear,
The various seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie?

Dam. Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing; Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring; Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground: Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.

Streph. Inspire me, Phæbus ! in my Delia's praise, With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays : A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand, That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.

Daph. O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes: No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart.

Streph. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found.

Daph. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green; She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen ; While a kind glance at her pursuer fies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes !

Streph. O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow, And trees weep amber on the banks of Po; Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield, Feed here, my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.

Daph. Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves ; Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves : If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid, Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade. Streph.Allnature mourns, the skies relentin show'rs, Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs; If Delia sinile the flowers begin to spring, The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing. Daph. All nature laughs,the groves are fresh and fair, The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air ; If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore. And vanquish'd nature sooms to charm no more. Streph. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, 'at noon the shady grove, But Delia always; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. | Daph. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day : Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here; But bless'd with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.

Streph. Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears A wondrous tree, that sacred monarchs bears? Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes.

Daph. Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields The thistle springs, to which the lily yields : And then a nobler prize I will resign ; For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine. Dam. Cease to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee. Blest swains, whose nymphs in every grace excel ; Blest nymphs,whose swains those graces sing so well! Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs, A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs; T'he tuif with rural dainties shall be crown'd, While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around: For see! the gathering flocks to shelter tend, And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend.



To Dr. Garth.

A Shepherd's boy she seeks no better name)

Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame, Where dancing sun-beams on the waters play'd, And verdant alders form'd a quiv'ring shade. • Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow, The focks around a dumb compassion show,

The Naïads wept in every watery bow'r,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.

Accept, O Garth ! the muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to the bays;
Hear what from love unpractis'd hearts endure,
From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.

Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phæbús', not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing,
The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?.
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parch'd with heat, and I inflam'd by thee.
The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.

Where stray ye, Muses ! in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh risióg blushes paint the watery glass ; But since those graces please thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart !

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 pow'r The captive bird that sings within thy bow'r !

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 prefers 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 oue.

See what delights in silvan 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 bow'rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And, crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, But your 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, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. O how I long with you to pass my days, Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise ! Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove, And winds shall waft it to the pow'rs above. But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain, The wondering forests soon should dance again ; The moving mountains hear the powerful call, And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!

But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,

To closer shades the panting flocks remove:
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love!-
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends :
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By, night be scorches, as he burns by day.




To Mr. Wycherley.
ENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,

Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays;
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
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 feecy clouds were streak’d with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rockstoweep,and made the mountains groan. 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 fill 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.

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