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foul away.

Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store ;
To-morrow will produce as many more.
Mean while these heart-consuming pains remove,
And give me gentle pity for my love.
Oh was I made by some transforming power
A bee to buzz in your sequefter'd bower!
To pietce your ivy shade with murmuring sound,
And the light leaves that compass you around.
I know thee, love, and to my sorrow find,
A god thou art, but of the savage kind ;-

A lioness sure suckled the fell child,
And with his brothers nurst him in the wild ;
On me his fcorching flames incessant prey,
Glow in my bones, and melt my
Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart, 30
Fair is your face, but Ainty is your heart :
With kisses kind this rage of love appease ;
For me, fond Swain ! ey'n empty kisses please.
Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear
The flow'ry crown I wove for you to wear, 35
Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,
And fragrant herbs ambrofial odours breathe,
Ah me! what pangs I feel, and yet the fair
Nor sees my sorrows, nor will hear my prayer.
I'll doff my garments, since I needs muli die,

And from yon rock, that points its summit high,
Where patient Alpis snares the finny fry,
I'll leap, and though perchance I rise again,
You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main.
By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found

Your chang'd affection, for it gave no sound
Though in my hand truck hollow as it lay,
But quickly wither'd like your love away.
An old witch brought sad tiding to my ears,
She who tells fortunes with the fieve and sheers ;. 50
For leasing barley in my fields of late,
She told me, I should love, and you Should hate.!
For you my care a milk white goat supply'd,
Two wanton kids run frisking at her side ;
Which of the nut-brown maid, Erithacis,

55 Has beg'd, and paid before-hand with a kiss ; And since you thus my ardent paflion sight, Her's they fall be before to-morrow night.

My right eye itches ; may it lucky prove,
Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love;

Beneath yon pine I'll fing distinct and clear,
Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear;
Perhaps may pity my melodious moan;
She is not metamorphos'd into ftone.
Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife,

To win a mistress, or to lose his life,
Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way,
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay;
She look’d, she languish'd, all her soul took fire,
She plung’d into the gulph of deep desire.

To Pyle from Othry's fage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame ;
Fair Pero bleit his brother Bias' arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.
Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,

And fea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain ;
She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia bleft,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest.
Fasion sumb'ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once faw, and bleft the happy swain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane,

My head grows giddy, love affects me fore ;
Yet you regard not ; so I'll fing no more-
Here will I put a period to my care-
Adieu, false nymph, adieu ungrateful fair :
Stretch'd near the grocto, when I've breath'd my last
My corse will give the wolves a rich repaft,
As sweet to them, as honey to your talte. 90



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Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in some places copied, and always imitated with success. As a specimen of his manner we shall introduce his first Paftoral, which is generally allowed to be the most perfect ; and our readers will see that we are obliged to Mr. Dryden for the. translation.

M e L I B O E U S.
Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse,
You, Tityrus, entertain your fylvan muse.

fate; my

Round the wide world in banishment we roam,
Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home;
While stretch'd at ease you fing your happy loves,
And Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

These blessings, friend, a Deity beftow'd ;
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender firflings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.
He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain,
And so my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

I envy not your fortune, but admire,
That while the raging sword and wasteful fire
Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around,
No hostile arms approach your happy ground.
Far diff'rent is my


With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes:
And this you see I scarcely drag along,
Who yeaning on the rocks has left her young,
The hope and promise of my falling fold,
My loss by dire portents the Gods foretold ;
For, had I not been blind, I might have seen
Yon riven oak, the faireft on the green,
And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough
By croaking from the left presag‘d the coming blow.
But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly power
Preserv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome
Like Mantua, where on market-days we come:
And thither drive our tender lambs from home.
So kids and whelps their fires and dams express ;
And so the great I measur'd by the lefs :
But country-towns, compard with her, appear
Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near.

What great occasion calld you hence to Rome ?

Freedom, which came at length, tho' flow to come:

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Nor did my search of liberty begin
black hairs were chang'd upon my

Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look,
Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely fwain,
I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain :
Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought,
many a

cheese to country markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got I spent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.

We stood amaz'd to see your mistrefs mourn,
Unknowing that the pin’d for your return;
We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long,
For whom fo late th' ungather'd apples hang:
But now the wonder ceafes, fince I fee
She kept them only, Tityrus, for the
For thee the bubbling fprings appear’d to mourn,
And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return.

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What should I do? while here I was enchain'd,
No glimpse of godlike liberty remaind;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To find a God so present to my pray's.
There first the youth of heay’nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renewd.
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed
My grounds to be restord, my former flocks to feed


O fortunate old man ! whose farm remains
For you sufficient, and requites your pains,
Tho' rufhes overspread the neighb'ring plains,
Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields
And there the foil a ftony harvest yields.
Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try,
Nor fear a rot from tainted company.
Behold yon bord’ring fence of fallow trees
Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'ss are fraught with bees :

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The busy bees, with a soft murm’ring strain,
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain :
While from the neighb'ring rock with rural songs
The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs ;
Stock-doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

T IT Rv 5.
Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change,
And fish on shore, and stags in air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

M E L I BO E V s.
But we muft beg our bread in climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone ;
And some to fair Oaxis shall be fold,
Or try the Lybian heat, or Scythian cold ;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.
O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn ?
Nor, after length of rolling years return ?
Are we condemnd by fate's unjust decree,
No more our houses and our homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own!
Did we for these barbarians plant and fow,
On these, on these, our happy fields bestow ?
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine ;
The fruit is theirs, the labour only inine.
Farewel my pastures, my paternal stock,
My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock!
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme ;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow,
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air !
No more my theep shall fip the morning dew;
No more my song shall please the rural crew :
Adieu, my tuneful pipe ! and all the world adieu !


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