Quite deftitute it ftands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and fport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of fpring;
Nor birds among the leaflefs branches fing:
No more, beneath thy fhade, fhall fhepherds throng, With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleafing fong.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the fhepherds fly.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews fpoil the rifing corn,
Or blafting winds o'er bloffom'd hedge-rows pafs,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and fcorch the grafs,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, forefhows,
Blood-ftain'd in foul eclipfe, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee ftill.
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
From this good shepherd's care his flock may keep: 60 Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah, lucklefs lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when, fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filvery flood..
Ah, filly I! more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more, With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore? When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall 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 astray?
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 befides a name,
Or, footh to fay, didft thou not hither roam
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling-ftone is, ever, bare of mofs;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs crofs.
COLINE T.
Small need there was, in random search 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 sheep 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 reft my head.
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 т.
Slander we fhepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue?
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
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 skill 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 song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, fhall my rude mufic ceafe;
I ask no more, fo I Menalcas please.
Menalcas, lord of thefe fair fertile plains,
Preferves the fheep, and o'er the fhepherds reigns :
For him our yearly wakes, and feafts, we hold,
And choose the fairest firitling from the fold:
He, good to all, who good deferve, shall give.
Thy flock to feed, and thee at eafe to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.
First, then, fhall lightsome 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 moss, 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 tume, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, With young Augustus' name he grac'd his fong : 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 fee our cattle unmolested thrive,
While from our Albion her victorious arms
Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
Like them will I my flender mufic raife,
And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praife.
Meantime, on oaten pipe a lowly lay,
As my
kids browse, obscure in fhades I play:
Yet, not obfcure, while Dorfet thinks no scorn
To vifit woods, and fwains ignobly born.
Two valley fwain's, 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 fadnefs overcafts their mind:
Revolving now, the folemn day they find,
When young Albino died. His image dear
Bedews their cheeks with many a trickling tear:
To tears they add the tribute of their verfe;
Thefe Angelot, thofe Palin, did rehearse.
Thus, yearly circling, by-paft times return; And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas!
How sweet the rofe
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