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The fifth contains a celebration of Daphnis, which has stood to all succeeding ages as the model of pastoral elegies. To deny praise to a performance which so many thousands have laboured to imitate, would be to judge with too little deference for the opinion of mankind: yet whoever shall read it with impartiality, will find that most of the images are of the mythological kind, and, therefore, easily invented; and that there are few sentiments of rational praise or natural lamentation.

In the Silenus he again rises to the dignity of phi. losophick sentiments and heroic poetry. The address to Varus is eminently beautiful : but since the compliment paid to Gallus fixes the transaction to his own time, the fiction of Silenus seems injudicious; nor has any sufficient reason yet been found, to justify his choice of those fables that make the sub. ject of the song

The seventh exhibits another contest of the tuneful shepherds : and, surely, it is not without some reproach to his inventive power, that of ten pastorals Virgil has written two upon the same plan. One of the shepherds now gains an acknowledged victory, but without any apparent superiority; and the reader, when he sees the prize adjudged, is not able to discover how it was deserved.

Of the eighth pastoral, so little is properly the work of Virgil, that he has no claim to other praise or blame than that of a translator.

Of the ninth, it is scarce possible to discover the design or tendency: it is said, I know not upon what authority, to have been composed from fragF 4


ments of other poems; and except a few lines in which the author touches upon his own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems appropriated to any time or place, or of which any other use can be discovered than to fill up


poem. The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be determined of the rest, are sufficient to place their author above the reach of rivalry. The complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is full of such sentiments as disappointed love naturally produces; his wishes are wild, his resentment is tender, and his purposes are inconftant. In the genuine language of despair, he fooths himself a-while with the pity that shall be paid him after his death :

Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit,
Bfontibus hæc vestris: foli cantare periti
Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter clla quitfiart,
Feira meos olim fi filula dicat amores!

Yet, O Arcadian swains,
Ye best artificers of foothing strains !
Tunc vour soft reeds, and teach your rocks my wocs,
So thall my shade in swecter reft repose,
O that your birth and business had been mine;
To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine!


Discontented with his present condition, and defirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes hinself one of the shepherds. He then catches the kea of rural tranquillity; but soon discovers how much happier he should be in there happy regions, with 1161'is at his lide:

Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori:
Hic nemus; hic ipfo tecum consumerer ævo.
Nunc insanus amor duri me Martis in armis;
Tela inter media, atque adversos detinet hoftes.
Tu procul a patria (nec fit mihi credere) tantum
Alpinas; ab dura, nives, & frigore Rheni
Me fine sola vides. Ah te ne frigora lædant !
Ah tibi ne teneras glacies fecet aspera plantas !
Here cooling fountains roll thro’ flow'ry meads,
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
Here could I wear my careless life away,
And in thy arms insensibly decay.
Instead of that, me frantick love detains
'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains :
While you-and can my soul the tale believe,
Far from your country, lonely wand’ring leave
Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive!
Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine,
And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine.
Ah! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid,
Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade !



He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may solace or ainuse him: he proposes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another; and at last finds that nothing will satisfy;

Jam neque Hamadryades rurfum, nec carmina nobis
ipfa placent : ipfe rursum concedite sylva.
Non illum noftri poffunt mutare labores ;
Nec fi frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus,
Scithoniasque nives hyemis fubeamus aquofæ :
Nec fi, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulme,
Æthiopum verfemus oves fub fidere Cancri,
Omnia vincit amer; et nos cedamus amori.

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But now again no more the woodland maids,
Nor pastoral songs delight-Farewell, ye Shades
No toils of ours the cruel god can change,
Tho' loft in frozen deserts we should range ;
Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows,
Endure bleak winter's blasts, and Thracian frows;
Or on hot India's plains our flocks should feed,
Where the parch'd elm declines his fickening head;
Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer's ficry beams,
Far from cool breczes and refreshing streams.
Love over all maintains reliftless sway,
And let us love's all-conquering power obey.


But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural and more diverfified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old companion at ease in the shade, while himfelf was driving his little Rock he knew not whither, is such as, with variation of circumstances, misery always utters at the right of prosperity:

Nos patriæ fines, & dulcia linquimus arva;
Nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra,
Fermosam refinare doces Amaryllida sylvas,
We leave our country's bounds, our much lov'd plains;
We from our country fly, unhappy twains !
You, Tit'rus, in the groves at leifure laid,
Teach Amaryllis' nanie to every thade. WARTON,

His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives a very tender image of pastoral distress:


En ipfe capellas
Protenus ager ago : hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco :
Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos,
Spem gregis, ab! filice in nuda connixa reliquit.
And lo! sad partner of the general care,
Weary and faint I drive my goats afar !
While scarcely this my leading hand sustains,
Tir'd with the way, and recent from her pains;
For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we past,
On the bare Aints her hapless twin she cast,
The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold!


The descripion of Virgil's happiness in his little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure ; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifference, has no sense of pastoral poetry:

Fortunate fenex, ergo tua rura manebunt,
Et tibi magna satis; quamvis lapis omnia nudus,
Limofoque palus obducat pascua junco,
Non insueta gravis tentabunt pabula fæetas,
Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia lædent.
Fortunate fenex, his inter flumina neta,
Et fontes facros, frigus captabis opacum.
Hinc tibi, quæ femper vicino ab limite sepes,
Hyblæis apibus fi rem depasta salifti,
Sæpe levi fomnum fuadebit inire susurro.
Hinc altâ fub rupe canet frondator ad auras ;
Nec tamen interea rauca, tua cura, palumbes,
Nec gemere aëria ceffabit turtur ab ulmo.
Happy old man ! then still thy farms restor’d,
Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board.
What thorough stones the naked soil o'erspread,
Or marshy bulrush rear its wat'ry head,


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