Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Sad-founding wide from every village-bell ?
Can we forget how forely Albion moan'd,
That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd, 36
Prefaging future woe, when, for our crimes,
We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times,
Fair boat of this fair Island, darling joy
Of nobles high, and every shepherd-boy?
No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen,
Nor fhepherd found upon the graffy green,
No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood,
No birds were heard to warble through the wood. 44
In yonder gloomy grove out-ftretch'd he lay
His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;
On his cold cheek the rofy hue decay'd,
And, o'er his lips, the deadly blue display'd :
Bleating around him lie his plaintive sheep,
And mourning fhepherds come, in crowds, to weep.
Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress?
As if the grave regarded our diftrefs!
The tender virgins come, to tears yet new,
And give, aloud, the lamentations due.
The pious mother comes, with grief oppreft:
Ye trees, and confcious fountains, can attest
With what fad accents, and what piercing cries,
She fill'd the grove, and importun'd the skies,
And every star upbraided with his death,
When, in her widow'd arms, devoid of breath,
Place in her darling's welfare all her blifs,
She clafp'd her fon: nor did the Nymph, for this,
Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield,
And rule the peaceful empire of the field.
As milk-white fwans on streams of filver show,
And filvery streams to grace the meadows flow,
As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
So thou, to thine, an ornament was born.
Since thou, delicious youth, didft quit the plains,
Th' ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
In labour'd furrows fow the choice of wheat,
And, over empty fheaves, in harvest sweat,
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;
And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled, like morning-dew!
And fcarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.
Who, now, fhall teach the pointed fpear to throw,
To whirl the fling, and bend the stubborn bow,
To tofs the quoit with steady aim, and far,
With finewy force, to pitch the massy bar?
Nor doft thou live to blefs thy mother's days,
To fhare her triumphs, and to feel her praife,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,
And add new glories to the British name :
O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit reft!
The flowery turf lie light upon thy breast;
Nor fhrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground.
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain: Albino lives; and all our tears are vain :
Albino lives, and will for ever live,
With myriads mixt, who never know to grieve,
Who welcome every ftranger-gueft, nor fear
Ever to mourn his abfence with a tear,
Where cold, nor heat, nor irkfome toil annoy,
Nor age, nor fickness, comes to damp their joy: 96
And now the royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns
The land to rule, and fhield the finiple fwains,
While, from above, propitious he looks down:
For this, the welkin does no longer frown,
Each planet fhines, indulgent, from his fphere,
And we renew our paftimes with the year.
Hills, dales, and woods, with thrilling pipes refound;
The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd, 104
And hail Albino bleft: the valleys ring
Albino bleft! O now, if ever, bring
The laurel green, the fmelling eglantine,
And tender branches from the mantling vine,
The dewy cowflip, which in meadow grows,
The fountain-violet, and the garden-röfe,
Marth-lilies fweet, and tufts of daffodil,
With what ye cull from wood, or verdant hill,
Whether in open fun, or fhade, they blow,
More early fome, and fome unfolding flow,
Bring, in heap'd canisters, of every kind,
As if the fummer had with fpring combin'd,
And Nature, forward to affift your care,
Did not profufion for Albino fpare.
Your hamlets ftrew, and every public way;
And confecrate to mirth Albino's day:
Myself will lavish all my little store,
And deal about the goblet flowing o'er :
Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco fing,
And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring,
And Hobbinol his antic gambols play:
To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay :
Nor fail to mention thee in all our chear,
And teach our children the remembrance dear,
When we our fhearing-feaft, or harvest keep,
To speed the plow, and bless our thriving sheep.
While willow kids, and herbage lambs pursue,
While bees love thyme, and locuft fip the dew,
While birds delight in woods their notes to strain,
Thy name and fweet memorial shall remain.
HIS place may feem for fhepherd's leifure made, So close these elms inweave their lofty shade; The twining woodbine, how it climbs! to breathe Refreshing fweets around on all beneath;
The ground with grafs of chearful green bespread,
Through which the fpringing flower up-rears the head:
Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue,
Medly'd with daifies white and endive blue,
And honeyfuckles of a purple die,
Confufion gay! bright-waving to the eye.
X 4
Hark, how they warble in that brambly busli,
The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill,
And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill:
In sprightly concert how they all combine,
Us prompting in the various fongs to join :
Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or voice more founding try:
And fince our ewes have graz'd, what harms if they
Lie round and liften while the lambkins play?
Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit exprefs
Fair Nature's bounties in the fairest drefs:
'Tis rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky;
And rapture works the finger's fancy high.
Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze
Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trecs:
Il fuch incitements fuit my rugged lay,
Befitting more the music thou canst play.
No fkill of mufic kon I, fimple fwain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain:
Albeit fome deal I pipe, rude though it be,
Sufficient to divert my fheep and me ;
Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill)
Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill,
And fain would teach me on what founds to dwell, And where to fink a note, and where to fwell.
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