How blithely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jeft at little Fears that fright the (a) Lave.
Ilk Day that he's alone upon the Hill,

He reads fell Books that teach him meikle Skill.
He is but what need I fay that or this,
I'd fpend a Month to tell you what he is!
In a' he fays or does, there's fic a Gate,

The reft feem Coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.

This Writer has with Mr. Gay left Arcadian Strains, and Plains, to which Stile the Reft keep, but then Taffo and Guarini as their Stile is Arcadian, their Scenes are in Arcady; what moft difpleafeth us is, when, as Mr. Philips in his third Pastoral keeps up to the Sicilian Stile, yet talks of Thomas and Britain.

Next to praifing and defcribing those that they love, generally paftoral Writers are fond of making young Lovers complain of their Love, and here Mr. Philips has done himself and our Language great Credit and Honour. Hear his charming Shepherd's Boy.

Ah well a Day! How long muft I endure This pining Pain? Or who fhall work my Cure? Fond Love no Cure will have; feeks no Repofe; Delights in Grief; nor any Meafure knows. And now the Moon begins in Clouds to rise; The twinkling Stars are lighted in the (b) Skies; The Winds are hufh'd; the Dews diftil; and Sleep With foft Embrace has feiz'd my weary Sheep. I only, with the prouling Wolf, constrain'd All Night to wake. With Hunger is he pain❜d, And I with Love. His Hunger he may tame: But who in Love can ftop the growing Flame? Whilome did I, all as this Poplar fair, Up-raise my heedlefs Head, devoid of Care,

'Mong

(a) Reft,

(b) Boobies.

'Mong ruftick Routs the chief for wanton Game
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
Who better feen, than I, in Shepherds Arts,
To please the Lads and win the Laffes Hearts ?
How deftly to mine oaten Reed fo fweet,
Wont they, upon the Green, to fhift their Feet?
And, when the Dance was done, how would they
Some well devised Tale from me to learn? [yearn
For, many Songs and Tales of Mirth had I,
To chase the lingring Sun adown the Sky.
But, ah! fince Lucy coy has wrought her Spite
Within my Heart; unmindful of Delight,
The jolly Grooms I fly; and all alone

To Rocks and Woods pour forth my fruitless Moan.
Oh quit thy wonted Scorn, relentless Fair!
E'er, lingring long, I perifh thro' Defpair.
Had Rofalind been Mistress of my Mind,
Tho' not fo fair, fhe would have been more kind.
O think, unwitting Maid, while yet is Time,
How flying Years impare our youthful Prime!
Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay;
And Flow'rs, tho' left ungather'd, will decay.
The Flow'rs a new returning Seafons bring;
But Beauty faded has no fecond Spring.

My Words are Wind! She, deaf to all my Cries,
Takes Pleasure in the Mischief of her Eyes.
Like frisking Heifers, loofe in flow'ry Meads,
She gads where-e'er her roving Fancy leads;
Yet ftill from me. Ah me, the tiresome Chace!
While, wing'd with Scorn, fhe flies my fond Em-
She flies indeed: But ever leaves behind, [brace.
Fly where the will, her Likeness in my Mind.
Ah turn thee then! Unthinking Damfel! Why,
Thus from the Youth, who loves thee, fhould't thou
No cruel Purpose in my Speed I bear:

[Ay?

'Tis all but Love; and Love why should't thou fear?

What

What idle Fears a Maiden Breaft alarm!
Stay, fimple Girl! a Lover cannot harm.

What can be finer! It would be Injuftice to Mr. Philips, and to our own Soul, not to confefs, that we think no Body who has any the leaft Harmony in their Mind, but it must be awak'd, and fympathize with this.

Mr. Pope introduces Alexis, and puts into his Mouth a very fweet Complaint:

That Flute is mine, which Colin's tuneful Breath Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in Death : He faid, Alexis, take this Pipe, the fame That taught the Groves my Rofalinda's Name : But now the Reeds fhall hang on yonder Tree For-ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee: Oh! Were I made by fome transforming Pow'r, The captive Bird that fings within thy Bow'r, Then might my Voice thy liftning Ears employ, And I thofe Kiffes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my Numbers please the rural Throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the Song: The Nymphs forfaking ev'ry Cave and Spring, Their early Fruit, and milk-white Turtles bring, Each am'rous Nymph prefers her Gifts in vain, On you their Gifts are all beftow'd again! For you the Swains the faireft Flow'rs defign, And in one Garland all their Beauties join; Accept the Wreath which you deserve alone, In whom all Beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what Delights in Sylvan Scenes appear! Defcending Gods have found Elyzium here. In Woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd, And chafte Diana haunts the Forest-shade.

Come,

Come, lovely Nymph, and bless the filent Hours;
When Swains from fhearing feek their nightly Bowers;
When weary Reapers quit the fultry Field,

And crown'd with Corn, their Thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless Grove no lurking Viper hides,
But in my Breaft the Serpent Love abides.
Here Bees from Bloffoms fip the rofy Dew,
But your Alexis knows no Sweet but you,
Some God conduct you to these blissful Seats,
The mofly Fountains, and the green Retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool Gales fhall fan the Glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a Shade,
Where'er you tread, the blufhing Flow'rs fhall rife,
And all Things flourish where you turn your Eyes.
Oh! how I long with you to pass my Days,
Invoke the Mufes, and refound your Praise;
Your Praise the Birds fhall chant in ev'ry Grove,
And Winds fhall waft it to the Pow'rs above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' Strain,
The wond'ring Forefts foon fhould dance again,
The moving Mountains hear the pow'rful Call,
And headlong Streams hang lift'ning in their Fall."

Great has been the Strife whether thefe Verfes, or thofe of Mr. Ambrofe Philips just mentioned, are most worthy of Praife, which we believe no small Difficulty to decide.

Either of them may ferve for future Poets to imitate, who purpose to excel in this Sicilian, or Arcadian Paftoral Stile: Many Friends has this Manner of Writing, its Softnefs ftealing thro' the Ear; moft young Minds are moft ftrongly affected with it, it warms the very Hearts of all who are touch'd with the fine Paffion of Love, and infufes a difinterested and noble Spirit into the Soul: It banifhes from the Breaft every Thing mean and contemptible,, and VOL. II places

L

places in the Stead, a generous Beneficence and Benevolence, to that the Mind becomes perfectly ferene and humane.

Not lefs pleafing is our Devonshire Shepherd, Mr. Gay, tho' his Images are much more familiar. Sparabella bewails her loft Love, devifing her fad Plaint in these mournful Notes:

Come Night as dark as Pitch, furround my Head, From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;

The Ribbon that his val'rous Cudgel won,
Last Sunday happier Clumfilis put on.

Sure, if he'd Eyes (but Love, they fay, has none)
I whilome by that Ribbon had been known.
Ah, well a-day! I'm fhent with baneful Smart,
For with the Ribbon he bestow'd his Heart.
My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid,
'Tis hard fo true a Damfel dies a Maid.

I've often seen my Vifage in yon Lake,
Nor are my Features of the homelieft Make.
Though Clumfilis may boast a whiter Dye,
Yet the black Sloe turns in my rolling Eye;
And fairest Bloffoms drop with ev'ry Blast,
But the brown Beauty will like Hollies laft.
Her wan Complexion's like the wither'd Leek,
While Katherine Pears adorn my ruddy Cheek.
Yet fhe, alas! The witlefs Lout hath won,
And by her Gain, poor Sparabell's undone !
Let Hares and Hounds in coupling Straps unite,
The clocking Hen make Friendship with the Kite,
Let the Fox fimply wear the nuptial Noose,
And join in Wedlock with the wadling Goose;
For Love hath brought a stranger Thing to pass,
The fairest Shepherd weds the fouleft Lafs.
My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid,
'Tis hard fo true a Damfel dies a Maid.

Ah !