صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

This night, at least, with me forget your care ;
Chesnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet.ground shall be with leaves o'er-spread,
And boughs Thall weave a cov'ring for your

For see yon sunny hill, the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Spenser was the first of our own countrymen, who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We hall insert his fixth eclogue, or that for June, which is als legorical, as will be seen by the

Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the
place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin de-
clares himself incapable of delight, by reason of his ill
success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treach-
erously forsaken him for Menalcas, another shepherd. By
Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and
again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the
author sometimes profess'd to imitate. In the person of
Colin, is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's
inviting him to leave the hilly country, seems to allude to
his leaving the North, where, as is mention'd in his life, he
had for some time resided.

Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant fight
From other shades hath weand my wand'ring mind:

Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,

So calm, so cool, as no where else I find ;
The graffy ground with dainty daisies dight,

The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind
To th’ water's fall their tunes attemper right.

O! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state,
That paradise haft found which Adam loft.

Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ytost ;

[ocr errors]

Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry Gods parsue from coast to coast, Can no where find, to fhroud my luckless pate,

Then if by me thou lift advised be,
Forsake the soil, that fo doth thee bewitch :

Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch ;

And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been every where to see :

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,

With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces ; Whilst fifters nine, which dwell on Parnafs' hight,

Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himfelf to kiss their chryftal faces,

Will pipe and daunce, when Phoebe Thineth bright : Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

COLIN. And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,

In such delights did joy amongft my peers : But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,

My fancy eke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in passing wears

(As garments doen, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I sing of love and tune my pipe Unto my plantive pleas in verses made:

Tho would I seek for queen-apples unripe, To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade, To crown her golden locks : but years more ripe,

And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.

[ocr errors][ocr errors]

Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays,
Which thou wert wont on waiteful hills to sing,

I more delight, than lark in sommer days :
Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,

And taugḥt the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays;

Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
Or hold their peace, for fhame of thy sweet lays.

I saw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy daten pipe began to sound,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they fate around,

Ren after haftily thy silver sound,
But when they came, where thou thy skill didit show,

They drew a back, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to fee, them in their art out-go.

Of muses, Hobbinol, I con no fkill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,

And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill :
For fith I heard that Pan with Phoebus (trove

Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never list presume to Parnass' hill,

But piping low, in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,
Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest :

With Mepherds fits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him beft.

rimes been rough, and rudely dreft;
The fitter they, my careful case to frame :

Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteoas plaints out in the same.

The God of shepherds, Tityrus is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make :

He, whilft he lived was the sovereign head
Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.

[ocr errors]

I wote my

Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The Aames, which love within his heart had bred,

And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed.

Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him such outrage show!

And all his palling skill with him is filed, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow...

But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned hed,

I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painful plight,

Fly to my love, wherever that the be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;

As the deferves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery

Didft underfong my lass to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villiany.

But since I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed,

Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed :

And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn’d to faithless seere,

That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.


O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest Aint to flow !

Ah ! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this rueful woe!

But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed Aocks, and home apace,

Left night with stealing steps do you foreslo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his Pastorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be fup. posed till to have place among the shepherds, and other rufticks in the country. We have made choice of his fe. cond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

Mr. PHILIP s's second Pastoral,

Is it not Colinet I lonesome fee
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears ?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Or hear'ít not lark and linnet jointly sing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to falute the spring ?

Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate;
Nor lark would fing, nor linnet, in my state,
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born,
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.

Small cause, I ween, has lufty youth to plain ;
Or who may then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every sackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presfeth as our days prevail ?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn bend,
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper ftill retains :
And why should man, milhap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?


« السابقةمتابعة »