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First, then, fhall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to paftures dry,
And every rapid river ceafe to flow,
'E're 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 some remaining fruit of laft 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.

Mr. Pope's Paftorals next appeared, but in a different drefs from thofe of Spenfer, and Phillips; for he has difcarded all antiquated words, drawn his fwains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquifitely harmonious ; his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better Paftorals. We fhali infert the eclogue he has infcribed to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's firft Paftoral.

Beneath the fhade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Egon fung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithlefs, that an abfent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring;
Hylas and Egon's rural lays I fing.

Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose fenfe inftructs us, and whofe humour charms,
Whofe judgment fways us, and whose spirit warms!
Oh, fkill'd in nature! fee the hearts of fwains,
Their artlefs paffions, and their tender pains.
Now fetting Phabus fhone ferenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were ftreak'd with purple light;

When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong:
For her, the limes their pleafing fhades deny;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forfaken by the fpring,
Ye birds, that left by fummer ceafe to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love?
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my
Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry bloffom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let fpring attend, and fudden flow'rs arise ;
Let opening rofes knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And ftreams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy fleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not fhow'rs to larks, or fun-fhime to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia founds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleafing frenzy fooths my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?

She comes, my Delia comes !--now ceafe my lay,
And ceafe ye gales, to bear my fighs away!

Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd: Rehearfe, ye mufes, what yourfelves infpir'd.

Refound ye hills, refound my mournful ftrain !
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain:

Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rife,
Lose the low vales, and fteal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, fpent with toil and heat,
In their loofe traces from the field retreat;
While curling fmoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet hades glide o'er the dufky green.

Refound ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pafs'd the day :
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While fhe with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain !
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;

Now golden fruits in loaded branches fhine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove :
Juft Gods! fhall all things yield returns but love?
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
The fhepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.'
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart, while I preferv'd my fheep,
Pan come, and afk'd, what magic caus'd my fmart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?
What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains,
From thepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forfake mankind, and all the world-but love!
I know thee, love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain :
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.

Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff fhall end my pains.
No more, ye hills, no more refound my strains!

Thus fung the fhepherds, till th' approach of night, The fkies yet blufhing with departing light,

When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To thefe Paftorals, which are written agreeably to the tafte of antiquity, and the rules above prefcrib'd, we shall beg leave to fubjoin another that may be called a burlesque Paftoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and defcribed the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, inftead of thofe of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the paftoral. His fix Paftorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, cuftoms, and notions of our rufticks. We fhall infert the firft of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in finging the praises of their fweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controverfy. The perfons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.


Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throftles fhrill the bramble bufh forfake;
No chirping lark the welkin fheen ** invokes ;
No damfel yet the fwelling udder ftrokes ;
O'er yonder hill does fcant § the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott fo rear †?


Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween ‡, my plight is guest;
For he that loves, a firanger is to rest.
If fwains belye not, thou haft prov'd the fmart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rifing rear betokeneth well thy mind;
Thofe arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzelinda finites, Buxoma me.


Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.

* Shining or bright sky. Scarce. † Early. + Conceive,

Woe worth the tongue, may blifters fore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal!


Hold, witlefs Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arife, Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithfome fwain, The wifeft lout of all the neighb'ring plain ! From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arife. He taught us erft* the heifer's tail to view, When ftuck aloft, that fhow'rs would ftraight enfue: He firft that useful fecret did explain,

That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet foar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his fweet-heart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this fame oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole fhall give the prize to me.


See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of fleekeft fallow deer:
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue,
I'll wager, that the prize fhall be my due.


Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting flouch; Be thine the oaken ftaff, or mine the pouch.


My Blouzalinda is the blitheft lafs,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grafs.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daily that befide her grows;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of, gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daify, marygold, or king-cup rare.


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