Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush,
The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
The linnet green, with others famed for skill,
And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill:
In sprightly concert how they all combine,
Us prompting in the various songs to join:
Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try: And since our ewes have grazed, what harm if they Lie round and listen, while the lambkins play?
Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express
Fair Nature's bounties in the fairest dress:
"Tis rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky;
And rapture works the singer's fancy high.
Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze
Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees:
Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay,
Befitting more the music thou canst play.
No skill of music kon I, simple swain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain:
Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me;
Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill)
Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill,
And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell, And where to sink a note, and where to swell.
Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow,
Should Colinet to me his cunning show:
So trim his sonnets are, I pr'ythee, swain,
Now give us, once, a sample of his strain:
For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay!
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse;
And ask what boon thou willest for thy verse.
Since then thou list, a mournful song I choose:
A mournful song relieves a mournful muse.
Fast by the river on a bank he sat,
To weep the lovely maid's untimely fate,
Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she,
Whose fate he wept; a faithful shepherd he.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
O woful day! O, day of woe to me!
That ever I should live such day to see!
That ever she could die! O, most unkind,
To go and leave thy Colinet behind!
From blameless love, and plighted troth to go,
And leave to Colinet a life of woe!
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she
With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me:
I clasp'd her too, but death proved over-strong;
Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong :
Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain?
And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain?
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep;
Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;
Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh,
And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die.
Me flock nor stream, nor winds nor woes relieve,
She loved through life, and I through life will grieve.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair,
With downcast look, and with dishevell'd hair,
All beat the breast, and wring your hands and moan:
Her hour, untimely, might have proved your own:
Her hour, untimely, help me to lament;
And let your hearts at Stella's name relent.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
In vain the' endearing lustre of your eyes
We dote upon, and you as vainly prize.
What though your beauty bless the faithful swain,
And in the enamour'd heart like queens ye reign;
Yet in their prime does death the fairest kill,
As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Such Stella was; yet Stella might not live;
And what could Colinet in ransom give?
Oh! if or Music's voice, or Beauty's charm,
Could milden Death, and stay his lifted arm,
My pipe her face, her face my pipe might save,
Redeeming each the other from the grave.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Ah, fruitless wish! fell Death's uplifted arm
Nor beauty can arrest, nor music charm.
Behold! oh, baleful sight! see where she lies!
The budding flower, unkindly blasted, dies:
Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,
Will she again to life and me return.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now,
To weave fresh girlonds for thy Stella's brow?
No girlond ever more may Stella wear,
Nor see the flowery season of the year,
Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile,
And every toil of Colinet beguile.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose;
Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose,
With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, dress'd;
Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest,
If aught can witness: O, ye shepherds, tell,
When I am dead, no shepherd loved so well!
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb,
By Stella nursed, who wean'd thee from the dam,
What heed give I to aught but to my grief,
My whole employment, and my whole relief!
Stray where ye list, some happier master try;
Yet once, my flock, was none so bless'd as I.
Awake, my pipe; in every note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion move,
And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Shall silent hang upon this blasted oak,
Whence owls their dirges sing; and ravens croak:
Nor lark, nor linnet, shall my day delight,
Nor nightingale suspend my moan by night;
The night and day shall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.
No more, my pipe; here cease we to express
Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.
Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing,
And urge the valley with his wail to ring:
And now that sheep-hook for my song I crave.
Not this, but one more costly shalt thou have,
Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear,
To speak the giver's name, the month, and year;
The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd,
And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd.
O, Colinet! how sweet thy grief to hear!
How does thy verse subdue the listening ear!
Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew,
To slake the drought, and herbage to renew:
Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which move
In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove,
Nor valley brook, that, hid by alders, speeds
O'er pebbles warbling, and through whispering
reeds,
Nor dropping waters, which from rocks distil,
And welly grots with tinkling echoes fill.
Thrice happy Colinet, who can relieve
Heart-anguish sore, and make it sweet to grieve!
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