Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more,
With ravifh'd eyes
review thine amell'd fhore?
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When fhall I fee my hut, the small abode
Myself did raife, and cover o'er with fod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away.
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray?
A lewd defire, ftrange lads and fwains to know:
Ah, God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wandering feet unbleft, and fond of fame,
I fought I know not what besides a name.
THE NOT.
Or, footh to fay, didst thou not hit1er roam
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling-stone is, ever, bare of moss;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs cross.
COLINE T.
Small need there was, in random fearch of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My fheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold greenfward, for my nightly bed,
And fome flant willow's trunk to rest
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain :
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blafting ftorms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.
THEN O T.
Slander we fhepherds count the vileft wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of fpite,
Make mock of all the ditties I indite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou feek'ft the coverings of the grove,
In the cool fhade to fing the pains of love :
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath kill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas feems to like my fimple strain :
And, while that he delighteth in my fong,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, fhall my rude music cease;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas pleafe.
Menalcas, lord of thefe fair fertile plains,
Picferves the fheep, and o'er the fhepherds reigns :
For him our yearly wakes, and feafts, we hold,
And choose the fairest firstling from the fold:
He, good to all, who good deferve, fhall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural fongs.
First, then, fhall lightfome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.
This night thy care with me forget ; and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With fome remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and mofs, which gentle fleep invite:
And now behold the fun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the fign of ebbing day:
With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd ́heifers, loitering homeward, low.
HEN Virgil thought no fhame the Doric reed To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, With young Augustus' name he grac'd his song : And Spenfer, when amid the rural throng
He carol'd fweet, and graz'd along the flood
Of gentle Thames, made every founding wood
With good Eliza's name to ring around;
Eliza's name on every tree was found:
Since then, through Anna's cares at cafe we live,
And see our cattle unmolested thrive,
While from our Albion her victorious arms
Drive wafteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
Like them will I my flender mufic raife,
And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praise.
Meantime, on oaten pipe a lowly lay,
As my kids browse, obscure in shades I play :
Yet, not obfcure, while Dorfet thinks no fcorn
To vifit woods, and swains ignobly born.
Two valley fwains, both mufical, both young,
In friendship mutual, and united long,
Retire within a moffy cave, to fhun
The crowd of fhepherds, and the noon-day fun.
A gloom of fadnef's overcafts their mind:
Revolving now, the folemn day they find,
When young Albino died. His image dear
Bedews their checks with many a trickling tear:
To tears they add the tribute of their verse;
Thefe Angelot, those Palin, did rehearse.
Thus, yearly circling, by-paft times return;
And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas! how fhort thy stay:
How sweet the rofe! how speedy to decay!
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 loft Albino, pledge of peaceful times,
Fair boast of this fair Island, darling joy
Of nobles high, and every fhepherd-boy?
No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were feen,
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.
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 atteft
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,
She clafp'd her fon: nor did the Nymph, for this,
Place in her darling's welfare all her blifs,
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