He, good to all, who good deferve, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at cafe 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 paftures dry,
And every rapid river ceafe 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 Auguftus' name he grac'd his fong: And Spenfer, when amid the rural throng
He carol'd sweet, 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 unmolefted 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 praise. Meantime, on oaten pipe a lowly lay, As my kids browse, obfcure in fhades I play: Yet, not obfcure, while Dorfet thinks no fcorn To vifit woods, and fwains 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 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, those Palin, did rehearse.
Thus, yearly circling, by-paft times return; And yearly, thús, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas! how fhort thy fay:
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 Ifland, darling joy Of nobles high, and every fhepherd-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 difplay'd: Bleating around him lie his plaintive sheep, And mourning fhepherds come, in crowds, to weep. Young Buckhurft comes: and, is there no redress? As if the grave regarded our distress !
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,
Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield, And rule the peaceful empire of the field. As milk-white fwans on ftreams of filver fhow, 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 scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view. Who, now, shall teach the pointed spear 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 share her triumphs, and to feel her praise, In foreign realms to purchafe early fame, And add new glories to the British name: O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit reft!
The flowery turf lie light upon thy breaft; Nor fhrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round, Nor midnight goblins rèvel 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 stranger-gueft, nor fear Ever to mourn his abfence with a tear, Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy, Nor age, nor fickness, comes to damp their joy: And now the royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns The land to rule, and fhield the fimple fwains, While, from above, propitious he looks down: For this, the welkin does no longer frown, Each planet fhines, indulgent, from his sphere, And we renew our paftimes with the year. Hills, dales, and woods, with fhrilling 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-rose, Marth-lilies fweet, and tufts of daffodil,
With what ye cull from wood, or verdant hill, 112 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 spare. Your hamlets ftrew, and every public way; And confecrate to mirth Albino's day :
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