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A. PHILIPS— A. D. 1671-1749.

PASTORAL POEMS.

THE FIRST PASTORAL.

Lobbin.
If we, O Dorset, quit the city-throng,
To meditate in shades the rural song,
By your command, be present; and, O bring
The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing:
Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain,
And I forgive the fam'd Sicilian swain.

Begin. In unluxurious times of yore,
When flocks and herds were no inglorious store,
Lobbin, a shepherd-boy, one evening fair,
As western winds had cool'd the sultry air,
His number'd sheep within the fold now pent,
Thus plain’d him of his dreary discontent;
Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs,
He, solitary, sat, to breathe his vows,
Venting the tender anguish of his heart,
As passion taught, in accents free of art:
And little did he hope, while, night by night,
His sighs were lavish'd thus on Lucy bright.

“ Ah, well-a-day! how long must I endure
This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure !
Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose,
Delights in grief, nor any measure knows:
And now the moon begins in clouds to rise;
The brightening stars increase within the skies;
The winds are hush; the dews distil; and sleep
Hath clos’d the eye-lids of my weary sheep:
I only, with the prowling wolf, constrain’d
All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd,
And I with love. His hunger he may tame ;
But who can quench, 0 cruel love, thy flame?
Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair,
Up-raise my heedless head, then void of care,
'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game;
Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came.
Who better seen than I in shepherd's arts,
To please the lads, and win the lasses' hearts !
How deftly, to mine oaten-reed so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet?
And, weary'd in the dance, how would they yearn
Some well-devised tale from me to learn?
For many songs and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the loitering sun adown the sky:
But, ah! since Lucy coy deep-wrought her spight
Within my heart, unmindful of delight,
The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone,
To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan.
Oh! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair!
Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair.

Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind,
Though not so fair, she would have prov'd more kind.
O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time,
How flying years impair thy youthful prime !
Thy virgin-bloom will not for ever stay,
And flowers, though left ungather’d, will decay:
The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring!
But beauty faded has no second spring.
My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes,
Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads,
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads;
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chase!
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace.
She Aies, indeed, but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.
No cruel purpose, in my speed, I bear;
'Tis only love; and love why should'st thou fear?
What idle fears a maiden-breast alarm!
Stay, simple girl : a lover cannot harm.
Two sportive kidlings, both fair-fleck’d, I rear,
Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear:
A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed,
And teach the fondling from my hand to feed:
Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields
Of every dewy sweet the morning yields:
From early spring to autumn late shalt thou
Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow:
And when -But, why these unavailing pains?
The gifts, alike, and giver, she disdains:
And

now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem
Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem:
Yet was she born, like me, of shepherd-sire;
And I may fields and lowing herds acquire.
O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart,
Or could I half the warmth I feel impart,
How would I wander, every day, to find
The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind!
For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree,
How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee !
Or! if thou deign to live a shepherdess,
Thou Lobbin's flock, and Lobbin, shalt possess:
And fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I,
If liquid fountains flatter not; and why
Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show
The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow?
O! come, my love; nor think th' employment mean,
The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean;
To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes,
Ere the warm sun drink up the cooly dews,
While, with my pipe, and with my voice, I cheer
Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear,

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Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.
Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,

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 ?
How would my younglings round thee gazing stand! Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Ah! witless younglings! gaze not on her eye: Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
Thence all my sorrow; thence the death I die. No happy gleam of sunshine doth

appear, O, killing beauty! and O, sore desire!

My lowering sky, and wintery months, to cheer.
Must then my sufferings, but with life, expire ? My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Though blossoms every year the trees adorn,

Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see:
Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn : Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end,

The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend.

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.
In slender warblings, tun'd her piteous tale.

Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief, From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.
Pleas'd with so sweet a partner in his grief,

Thenot.
Till, by degrees, her notes and silent night

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,
THE SECOND PASTORAL.

To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass ;
THENOT, COLINET.

Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Thenot.

Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Is it not Colinet I lonesome see,

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,
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears?

From this good shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Why in this mournful manner art thou found, Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around? Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Or hear’st not lark and linnet jointly sing,

Colinet.
Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring ? Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Colinet.

Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate ; Unhappy hour! when, fresh in youthful bud,
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state. I left, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood.
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born;

Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.

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, though with years my body downward tend,

Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend;
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper still retains :
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me, then: it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

Colinet.
Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.

Thenot.
See Lightfoot, he shall tend them close: and I,
'Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.

Colinet.
Where to begin I know not, where to end.

Thenot.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

Colinet.
A lewd desire, strange lads and swains to know:
Ah, God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

Thenot.

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In search of gains more plenty than at home ?
A rolling-stone is ever bare of moss ;

Colinet.

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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
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain :

Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, Like them will I my slender music raise,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:

And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praise.
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower

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.
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,

Sent into life, alas ! how short thy stay:
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease ; How sweet the rose ! how speedy to decay!
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Thenot.

Sad-sounding wide from every village bell?
Menalcas, lord of these fair fertile plains,

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,
Colinet.

No cattle graz’d the field, nor drank the flood,
First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly, No birds were heard to warble through the wood.
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,

In yonder gloomy grove outstretch'd he lay And every rapid river cease to flow,

His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;
Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd,
Thenot.

And, o'er his lips, the deadly blue display'd:
This night thy care with me forget; and fold Bleating around him lie his plaintive sheep,
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. And mourning shepherds come, in crowds, to weep.
New milk, and clouted cream,mild cheese and curd, Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress :
With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, As if the grave regarded our distress !
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,

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
With songs the jovial hinds return from plough; With what sad accents, and what piercing cries,
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low. She fill'd the grove, and importun’d the skies,

And every star upbraided with his death,
THE THIRD PASTORAL.

When, in her widow'd arins, devoid of breath,
Albino.

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,

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And nature, forward to assist your care,
Your hamlets strew, and every public way;
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing,
And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring,
And Hobbinol his antic gambols play:

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,
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;

Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain.
And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled like morning-dew!

THE FOURTH PASTORAL.
And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.

MYCO, ARGOL.
Who now shall teach the pointed spear to throw,

Myco.
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow, This place may seem for shepherd's leisure made,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,

So close these elms inweave their lofty shade;
With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar?

The twining woodbine, how it climbs, to breathe
Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days, Refreshing sweets around on all beneath;
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise, The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,

Through which the springing flower up-rears the
And add new glories to the British name.

Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue, (head: O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest;

Medly'd with daisies white and endive blue,
The towery turf lie light upon thy breast;

And honeysuckles of a purple dye,
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round, Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye.
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground! Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush,
Palin.

The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain:

The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill, Albino lives; and all our tears are vain:

And blackbird Auting through his yellow bill:
Albino lives, and will for ever live;

In sprightly concert how they all combine,
With myriads mixt, who never know to grieve; Us prompting in the various songs to join :
Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Ever to mourn his absence with a tear;

Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try:
Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy, And since our ewes have graz'd, what harm if they prich-
Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy;

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,
The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd,
And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring

Befitting more the music thou canst play.
Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring

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,
Whether in open sun, or shade they blow,
More early some, and some unfolding slow,

And where to sink a note, and where to swell.
Bring, in heap'd canisters, of every kind,

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:
Did not profusion for Albino spare.

So trim his sonnets are, I pr’ythee, swain,
Now give us, once, a sample of bis strain:

For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
And consecrate to mirth Albino's day:

How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay!
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse ;
And ask what boon thou willest for thy verse.

Myco.

Since then thou list, a mournful song I chuse :
To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay:

A mournful song relieves a mournful Muse.
Fast by the river on a bank he sate,

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Myself will lavish all my little store,
And deal about the goblet flowing o'er:

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Nor fail to mention thee in all our cheer,

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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 :
Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he.

Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,
Awake, my pipe; in every note express Will she again to life and me return.
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

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,
Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong: With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, dressid,
Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain? Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest,
And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain! If aught can witness: O, ye shepherds, tell,

Awake, my pipe; in every note express When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well!
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

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,
Me flock nor stream, nor winds nor woes, relieve; My whole employment, and my whole relief!
She lov'd through life, and I through life will grieve, Stray where ye list, some happier master try:
Awake, my pipe; in every note express

Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I,
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

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.

And

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.

Argol.

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

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