UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS. SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep- See the blushing morn doth peep Through your windows, while the sun To the mountain-tops has run, Gilding all the vales below
With his rising flames, which grow Brighter with his climbing still-- Up! ye lazy swains! and fill Bag and bottle for the field; Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield To the bitter north-east wind; Call the maidens up, and find Who lie longest, that she may Be chidden for untimed delay. Feed your faithful dogs, and pray Heaven to keep you from decay; So unfold, and then away.
PASTORAL EMPLOYMENTS.
But since her stay was long: for fear the sun Should find them idle, some of them begun To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar, Some from the company removed are To meditate the songs they meant to play, Or make a new round for next holiday; Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told; Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold. This, all alone, was mending of his pipe;
That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. Here (from the rest) a lovely shepherd's boy
Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy
Would still endure, or else that age's frost
Should never make him think what he had lost;
Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs, Her hands still keeping time to what she sings;
Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands Were comforted in working. Near the sands Of some sweet river sits a musing lad,
That moans the loss of what he some time had, His love by death bereft: when fast by him An aged swain takes place, as near the brim Of's grave as of the river.
HEYWOOD.
DATE OF BIRTH UNCERTAIN; DIED, 1659.*
SHEPHERD'S SONG.
WE that have known no greater state Than this we live in, praise our fate; For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-hooks for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition: We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold; Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good morrow. Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain; As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye. The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass, As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay, often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties' store,
One stomach feed at once, no more;
*This song having been omitted in the first edition, and there being no other piece from this author, among the Selections, it is substituted for the "Lament of the Shepherds," by Milton.
And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there.
JOHN GAY.
BORN, 1688; DIED, 1732.
RURAL OCCUPATION.
"Tis not that rural sports alone invite, But all the grateful country breathes delight; Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign, And strings the sinews of the industrious swain. Soon as the morning lark salutes the day, Through dewy fields I take my frequent way, Where I behold the farmer's early care In the revolving labours of the year.
When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd, And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground, The labourer with the bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green;
Of all her native pride disrobes the land, And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand; While with the mounting sun the meadow glows, The fading herbage round he loosely throws: But, if some sign portend a lasting show'r, The experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour, His sun-burnt hands the scatt'ring fork forsake, And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake; In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows, And spreads along the field in equal rows.
Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains; When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,
And in the middle pathway basks the snake;
Oh, lead me, guard me from the sultry hours, Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bow'rs: Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines, And with the beech a mutual shade combines ; Where flows the murm'ring brook inviting dreams, Where bordering hazel overhangs the streams, Whose rolling current winding round and round, With frequent falls makes all the wood resound; Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast, And e'en at noon the sweets of evening taste.
JAMES THOMSON.
BORN, 1700; DIED, 1748.
SHEEP SHEARING.
IN one diffusive band,
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, And that fair-spreading in a pebbled shore, Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain, On some impatient seizing, hurls them in: Embolden'd, then, nor hesitating more, Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, And, panting, labour to the farther shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream;
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race: where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Inly disturb'd and wondering what this wild Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints The country fill; and, toss'd from rock to rock, Incessant bleatings run around the hills.
At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd, Head above head: and, ranged in lusty rows, The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round. One chief, in gracious dignity enthroned,
Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Meantime their joyous task goes on apace; Some, mingling stir the melted tar, and some, Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side To stamp the master's cipher ready stand; Others th' unwilling wether drag along; And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy Holds by the twisted horns th' indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft By needy man, that all-depending lord, How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies! What softness in its melancholy face, What dumb complaining innocence appears! Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved; No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, Who having now, to pay his annual care, Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, Will send you bounding to your hills again.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE. BORN, 1714; Died, 1763.
THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.
My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
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