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A. PHILIPS— A. D. 1671-1749.
THE FIRST PASTORAL.
Begin. In unluxurious times of yore,
“ Ah, well-a-day! how long must I endure
Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind,
now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem
Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
How would the crook beseem thy lily-hand ! Doth there one smiling hour my youth attend ?
appear, O, killing beauty! and O, sore desire!
My lowering sky, and wintery months, to cheer.
Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see:
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring; Sleep, sleep, my flock; for happy ye may take Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake.” No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng, Now to the waning moon the nightingale,
With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite.
When blighting mildew spoils the rising corn,
Or blasting winds o'er blossom’d hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass ;
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee still. Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Colinet. Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill? "Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thenot. Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
From this good shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more, My tears oft mingling with the falling dew. With ravish'd eyes review thine amell’d shore? Thenot.
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain : Each feature faded, and my colour wan? Or who may, then, the weight of eld sustain, When shall I see my hut, the small abode When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod? And the load presseth as our days prevail ?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
In search of gains more plenty than at home ?
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
Of gentle Thames, made every sounding wood My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare, With good Eliza's name to ring around; And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare; Eliza's name on every tree was found : The damp, cold greensward, for my nightly bed, Since then through Anna's cares at ease we live, And some slant willow's trunk to rest my head, And see our cattle unmolested thrive, Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
While from our Albion her victorious arms
Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praise.
Meantime, on oaten pipe a lowly lay, Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower. As my kids browse, obscure in shades I play: Thenot.
Yet not obscure, while Dorset thinks no scorn Slander, we shepherds count the vilest wrong: To visit woods, and swains ignobly born. And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?
Two valley swains, both musical, both young, Colinet.
In friendship mutual, and united long, Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Retire within a mossy cave, to shun Make mock of all the ditties I indite.
The crowd of shepherds, and the noon-day sun. In vain, 0 Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
A gloom of sadness overcasts their mind: Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill : Revolving now, the solemn day they find, In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
When young Albino died. His image dear In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Bedews their cheeks with many a trickling tear: Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail; To tears they add the tribute of their verse; And every elf hath skill enough to rail :
These Angelot, those Palin, did rehearse. But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Angelot. Menalcas seems to like my simple strain:
Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return; And, while that he delighteth in my song,
And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas ! how short thy stay:
Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Sad-sounding wide from every village bell?
Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd, Preserves the sheep, and o’er the shepherds reigns: That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd, For him our yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold, Presaging future woe, when, for our crimes, And choose the fairest firstling from the fold: We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times, He, good to all who good deserve, shall give Fair boast of this fair island, darling joy Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Of nobles high, and every shepherd boy? Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen, And bounteously reward thy rural songs.
Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green,
No cattle graz’d the field, nor drank the flood,
In yonder gloomy grove outstretch'd he lay And every rapid river cease to flow,
His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;
On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd,
And, o'er his lips, the deadly blue display'd:
The tender virgins come, to tears yet new, Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite:
And give, aloud, the lamentations due. And now behold the sun's departing ray,
The pious mother comes, with grief opprest: O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day:
Ye trees, and conscious fountains, can attest
And every star upbraided with his death,
When, in her widow'd arins, devoid of breath,
She clasp'd her son: nor did the nymph, for this, When Virgil thought no shame the Doric reed Place in her darling's welfare all her bliss, To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield, With young Augustus' name he grac'd his song: And rule the peaceful empire of the field. And Spenser, when amid the rural throng
As milk-white swans on streams of silver show, He caroll'd sweet, and graz'd along the flood And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow,
And nature, forward to assist your care,
As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
And teach our children the remembrance dear, So thou, to thine, an ornament was born.
When we our shearing-feast, or harvest keep, Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains, To speed the plough, and bless our thriving sheep. Th'ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
While willow kids, and herbage lambs pursue, In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,
While bees love thyme, and locusts sip the dew, And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat;
While birds delight in woods their notes to strain,
Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain.
THE FOURTH PASTORAL.
So close these elms inweave their lofty shade;
The twining woodbine, how it climbs, to breathe
Through which the springing flower up-rears the
Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue, (head: O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest;
Medly'd with daisies white and endive blue,
And honeysuckles of a purple dye,
The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill, Albino lives; and all our tears are vain:
And blackbird Auting through his yellow bill:
In sprightly concert how they all combine,
Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try:
Lie round and listen while the lambkins play? And now the royal nymph, who bore him, deigns
Argol. The land to rule, and shield the simple swains,
Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express While, from above, propitious he looks down:
Fair nature's bounties in the fairest dress: For this, the welkin does no longer frown.
'T'is rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky; Each planet shines, indulgent, from his sphere,
And rapture works the singer's fancy high. And we renew our pastimes with the year.
Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes résound;
Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees:
Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay,
Befitting more the music thou canst play.
Myco. The laurel green, the smelling eglantine,
No skill of music kon I, simple swain, And tender branches from the mantling vine,
No fine device thine ear to entertain: The dewy cowslip, which in meadow grows,
Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be, The fountain-violet, and the garden-rose,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me; Marsh-lilies sweet, and tufts of daffodil,
Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill) With what ye cull froin wood, or verdant hill,
Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill,
And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a note, and where to swell.
Argol. As if the summer had with spring combin’d,
Ay, Myco! half my flock would I bestow,
Should Colinet to me his cunning show:
So trim his sonnets are, I pr’ythee, swain,
For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay!
Since then thou list, a mournful song I chuse :
A mournful song relieves a mournful Muse.
Myself will lavish all my little store,
Nor fail to mention thee in all our cheer,
To weep the lovely maid's untimely fate,
Behold! O baleful sight! see where she lies ! Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she,
The budding flower, unkindly blasted, dies :
Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,
Awake, my pipe ; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. “O woeful day! O day of woe to me! That ever I should live such day to see !
Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now That ever she could die! O, most unkind,
To weave fresh girlonds for thy Stella’s brow? To go and leave thy Colinet behind!
No girlond ever more may Stella wear, From blameless love, and plighted troth to go,
Nor see the flowery season of the year, And leave to Colinet a life of woe !
Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile, Awake, my pipe; in every note express
And every toil of Colinet beguile. Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. " And yet, why blame I her! full fain would she With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me:
“ Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose; I clasp'd her too, but death prov'd over-strong;
Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose,
Awake, my pipe; in every note express When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well!
Awake, my pipe ; iu every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. “ Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;
“ Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb, Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh,
By Stella nurs'd, who wean'd thee from the dam, And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die,
What heed give I to aught but to my grief,
Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I,
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. “ Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair, With downcast look, and with dishevell’d hair, “ My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion All beat the breast, and wring your hands and moan:
move, Her hour, untimely, might have prov'd your own :
And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love, Her hour, untimely, help me to lament;
Shall silent hang upon this blasted oak, And let your hearts at Stella's name relent.
Whence owls their dirges sing, and ravens croak: Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Nor lark, nor linnet, shall my day delight, Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. Nor nightingale suspend my moan by night:
The night and day shall undistinguish'd be, “ In vain th’ endearing lustre of your eyes
Alike to Stella, and alike to me." We doat upon, and you as vainly prize.
No more my pipe; here cease we to express What though your beauty bless the faithful swain, Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. And in th' enamour'd heart like queens ye reign; Yet in their prime does death the fairest kill,
Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing, As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.
urge the valley with his wail to ring. Awake, my pipe; in every note express
And now that sheep-hook for my song I crave. Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Not this, but one more costly, shalt thou have, “Such Stella was; yet Stella might not live!
Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear, And what could Colinet in ransom give?
To speak the giver's name, the month, and year; Oh! if or music's voice, or beauty's charm,
The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd, Could milden death, and stay his lifted arın,
And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd. My pipe her face, her face my pipe might save, 0, Colinet! how sweet thy grief to hear! Redeeming each the other from the grave.
How does thy verse subdue the listening ear! Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew, Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress. To slake the drought, and herbage to renew :
Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which Ah, fruitless wish! fell death's uplifted arm In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove, Nor beauty can arrest, nor music charın.
Nor valley brook, that, hid by alders, speeds