I'll stake yon lamb that near the fountain plays, Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring; Streph. Inspire me, Phoebus! 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 flies, 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, Streph. All nature mourns, the skies relent in show'rs, Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs; If Delia smile the flow'rs begin to spring, The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.. K Daph. All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair, The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; pears A wond'rous tree that sacred monarchs bears? Daph, Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields The thistle springs, to which the lily yields; Dam. Cease to contend: for, Daphnis, I decree Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs, SUMMER. PASTORAL II.-ALEXIS. To Dr. Garth. SHEPHERD's boy (he 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 flocks around a dumb compassion show, The Naiads 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 Phoebus,' not from Cupid's beams, To you I mourn; not 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 enflam'd by thee The sultry Sirus 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 thy crystal spring I view my face. Fresh rising 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, Oh! were I made by some transforming pow'r And yet my numbers please the rural throng, 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 shearing seek their nightly bow'rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove; AUTUMN. PASTORAL III.-HYLAS AND EGON To Mr. Wycherley. BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays, Hylas and Egon sung their rural lays; This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love, 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, groan.. |