and violence, but more of a fedate and quiet harmony, and, therefore, do they rather befriend contemplation. In like manner, the Paftoral Song gives a fweet and gentle compofure to the mind; whereas the Epic and Tragic Poems, by the vehemency of their emotions, raise the spirits into a ferment.

To view a fair stately palace, strikes us indeed with admiration, and fwells the foul with notions of grandeur: but when I fee a little country-dwelling, advantageously fituated amidst a beauteful variety of hills, meadows, fields, woods, and rivulets, I feel an unfpeakable fort of fatisfaction, and cannot forbear wishing my kinder fortune would place me in such a sweet retirement.

Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenfer, are the only Poets who feem to have hit upon the true nature of Pastoral Compofitions: fo that it will be fufficient praise for me, if I have not altogether failed in my attempt.

THE

THE FIRST PASTORA L.

IF

LOBBIN.

we, O Dorfet, quit the city-throng,
To meditate in fhades the rural fong,

By your cominand, be present: and, O bring
The Mufe along! The Muse to you shall fing:
Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain,
And I forgive the fam'd Sicilian Swain.
Begin. In unluxurious times of yore,
When flocks and herds were no inglorious ftore,
Lobbin, a fhepherd-boy, one evening fair,
As western winds had cool'd the fultry air,
His number'd sheep within the fold now pent,
Thus plain'd him of his dreary discontent;
Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs,
He, folitary, fat to breathe his vows,
Venting the tender anguish of his heart,
As paffion taught, in accents free of art :
And little did he hope, while, night by night,
His fighs were lavish'd thus on Lucy bright.

12

16

“Ah, well-a-day! how long must I endure "This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure? 20 Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, "Delights in grief, nor any measure knows : "And now the moon begins in clouds to rife; The brightening stars increase within the skies; 24

The

"The winds are hufh; the dews diftil; and fleep
Hath clos'd the eyelids of my weary sheep:
I only, with the prowling wolf, constrain'd
All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd,
"And I, with love. His hunger he may tame;
"But who can quench, O cruel Love, thy flame?
"Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair,

Up-raife my heedlefs head, then void of care,
'Mong ruftic routs the chief for wanton game;
Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came.
Who better feen than I in fhepherds' arts,

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32

To please the lads, and win the laffes' hearts? 36 "How deftly, to mine oaten-reed so sweet,

Wont they, upon the green, to fhift their feet? "And, weary'd in the dance, how would they yearn * Some well-devifed tale from me to learn?

For many fongs and tales of mirth had I,

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44

moan,

"To chace the loitering fun adown the sky : "But, ah! fince Lucy coy, deep-wrought her spight "Within my heart, unmindful of delight "The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone, "To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitlefs "Oh! quit thy wonted fcorn, relentless Fair! Ere, lingering long, I perifh through defpair. "Had Rofalind been mistress of "Though not so fair, she would have prov'd more kind. "O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time, "How flying years impair thy youthful prime ! 52 "Thy virgin-bloom will not for ever stay,

my mind,

And flowers, though left ungather'd, will decay :

48

"The

The flowers, anew, returning feasons bring!
But beauty faded has no second spring.

My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes.
Like frifking heifer, loose in flowery meads,
"She gads where'er her roving fancy leads;
"Yet ftill from me. Ah me, the tiresome chace!

Shy as the fawn, the flies my fond embrace. She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind, Fly where the will, her likeness in my mind. "No cruel purpose, in my speed, I bear;

56

60

64.

'Tis only love; and love why should'st thou fear? "What idle fears a maiden-breaft alarm!

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72

Stay, fimple girl: a lover cannot harm. "Two fportive kidlings, both fair-fleck'd, I rear; "Whofe fhooting horns like tender buds appear: "A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed, ***And teach the fondling from my hand to feed: "Nor will I ceafe betimes to cull the fields "Of every dewy sweet the morning yields: "From early fpring to autumn late shalt thou "Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow: 76 "And when,-But, why these unavailing pains?

The gifts, alike, and giver, fhe difdains :

2

"And now, left heirefs of the glen, fhe'll deem
"Me, landlefs lad, unworthy her efteem:
"Yet, was fhe born, like me, of fhepherd-fire;
"And I may fields and lowing herds acquire.
"O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart,
"Or could I half the warmth I feel impart,

80

84

"How

How would I wander, every day, to find

‹‹‹ The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind? For gloffy plumbs how lightsome climb the tree, "How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee!

83

92

96

Or! if thou deign to live a shepherdess, "Thou Lobbin's flock, and Lobbin, fhalt poffefs: "And, fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I, "If liquid fountains flatter not; and why "Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show "The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow? "O! come, my love; nor think th`employment mean, "The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean, "To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes, “Ere the warm sun drink-up the cooly dews, "While, with my pipe, and with my voice, I chear Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. 100 "How would the crook beseem thy lily-hand! "How would my younglings.round thee gazing stand! Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye: "Thence all my forrow; thence the death I die. 104 "O, killing beauty! and O, fore defire! "Muft then my fufferings, but with life, expire? "Though bloffoms every year the trees adorn, "Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn: "Nor trow I when this bitter blaft will end,

108

Or if yon ftars will e'er my vows befriend.
Sleep, fleep, my flock; for happy ye may take
Sweet nightly reft, though ftill your master wake.” 112
Now to the waning moon, the nightingale,

In flender warblings, tun'd her piteous tale,

The