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Accept, O Garth, the muse's early lays,
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Where stray ye, muses, in what lawn or grore, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love ? In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides ? As in the chrystal spring I view my face, Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass; But since those graces please thine eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew Ah, wretched shepherd! what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to hcal thy heart!
Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear : But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Inspired when living, and bequeathed in death : He said: ' Alexis, take this pipe, the same That taught the groves,my Rosalinda's name.' But now the reed shall hang on yonder tree, For ever silent, since despis'd by thee. O! were I made by some transforming power, The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy listening ears employ,
And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
you their gifts are all bestow'd again :
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear !
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove. Ye gods! and is there no relief for love? But soon the sun with milder rays descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends : On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey, By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
THE THIRD PASTORAL; OR, HYLAS AND
To Mr. Wycherley. BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays, Hylas and Ægon sang 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 succours 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 instructs us, and whose humour charms Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warme Oh! skill'd in nature ! see the hearts of swains Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phæbus shone serenely bright,
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along !
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounas Delia, cach cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind • Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind ? She comes, my Delia comes! Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
„Next Ægon sang, while Windsor groves admired: Rehearse, ye muses, what-yourselves inspired.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjured Doris, dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain ; Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove. Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay; The shepherds cry, 'Thy flocks are left a prey.' Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserved my sheep? Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caused my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love ?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains ! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains. From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world but love; I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred; Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed: Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn, sot by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods; adieu, the light of day; One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains.
Thus sang the shepherds till the approach of night The skies yet blushing with departed light,