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But tell me then ; it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

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

Τ Η Ε Ν ο Τ. See Lightfoot; he Mall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye.

COLIN E T. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling hour my youth attend ? Though few my days, as well my follies show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe : No happy gleam of fun-fhine doth appear, My low'ring sky, and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I fee : Quite deftitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind: The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches sing : No more, beneath thy shade, fhall thepherd's throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

TнE мот.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time was born,
When blightning mildews spoil the rising corn,
Or blafting 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 ftill.


And can there, Thendt, be a greater ill?

THE NOT. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our fheep: From these good fhepherd's care his flock may keep : Against ill-luck, alas ! all forcaft fails Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

Ah me, the while ! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say,
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filv'ry food.
Ah, filly I! more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks, I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks ! oh, when shall I once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amelld fhore ?
When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my but, the small abode
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with fod ?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.

Τ Η Ε Ν ο Τ,
And what enticement charm'd thee, far

away, From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart afray

A lewd desire ftrange lands, and fwains, to know :
Ah me! that ever I should covet woe.
With wand'ring feet anbleft, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

Or, footh to say, did'st thou not hither rome
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is, ever, bare of mofs ;
And, to their coft, 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, ,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold green sward, for my nightly bed,
And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain ;
And hard is want to the unpractic'd swain ;
But neither want, nor pinching cold; is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compard :
Unkind as hail it falls ; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

Slander we shepherds count the vileft wrong :
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue :

Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditries I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill :
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thoa wilt, ill-nature will prevail ;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail :
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my fimple strain :
And, while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease ;
I akk no more, so I Menalcas please. ,

Τ Η Ε Ν ο Τ. . Menalcas, lord of these fair, fertile plains, Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns : For him our yearly wakes, and feasts we hold, And choose the fairest firstlings from the fold : He, good to all, who good deserve, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy ru al fongs.

First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
'E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

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Τ Η Ε Ν ο Τ.

This night thy care with me forget, and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite :
And now behold the sun's departing ray,
O'er yonder, 'hill, the sign of ebbing day :
With songs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr. Pope's Paltorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser, and Phillips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better Pastorals, We shali infert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's firft Pastoral.

Beneath 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 intructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whofe judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms !
Oh, skill'd in nature ! see the hearts of fwains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.

Now setting Phæbus 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 groan.

Go, gentle gates, and bear my fighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the founding shores ;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along !
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny ;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love ?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's itay:
Fade ev'ry b!offom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I said ? where'er my Delia Aies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise ;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along !
The birds shall

cease to tune their evening song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab’rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or fun-fhine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay ?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy fooths my mind !
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes !--now cease my lay,
And ceale ye gales, to bear my fighs away!

Next Ægon fung, while Windsor groves admir'd:
Rehearse, ye mases, what yourselves inspir'd.

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