The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove ;
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey." Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,

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Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep? 80
Pan came, and ask'd, What magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?

What eyes but her's, alas, have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains; 86
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world.....but Love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tygers fed;
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day!

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One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains: 95 No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen’d every shade.

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WINTER.

PASTORAL IV,

OR,

DAPHNE.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.

Lycidas.

THYRSIS! the music of that murm'ring spring Is not so mournful as the strains you sing; Nor rivers winding through the vales below, So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow. Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie, The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky, Whilst silent birds forget their tuneful lays, Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!

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Thyr. Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,

Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call'd the list'ning Dryads to the plain?

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Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.

Lyc. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field.

Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,

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And said, "Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!" Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,

And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.

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Thyr. Ye gentle Muses, leave your chrystal spring; Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring: Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide, And break your boughs, as when Adonis died; And with your golden darts, now useless grown, 25 Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone :

"Let Nature change, let heaven and earth deplore; "Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more!"

"Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay;
See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!
Now hung with pearls the drooping trees appear,
Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.
See, where on earth the flow'ry glories lie;
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah! what avail the beauties Nature wore?
Fair Daphne's dead, and beauty is no more!

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For her the flocks refuse their verdant food, The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood,

The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,

In notes more sad than when they sing their own; 40 In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,

Silent, or only to her name replies;

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Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore;
Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews descend from ev'ning skies, 45
Nor morning odours from the flow'rs arise;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;
Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store;
Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning in mid air, suspend their wings;
No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays:
No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
A sweeter music than their own to hear;
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and music is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;

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