THIS place may feem for shepherds' leifure made, So lovingly these elms unite their head.
Th' ambitious woodbine, how it climbs, to breathe Its balmy fweets around on all beneath!
The ground with grafs of cheerful green bespread,
Thro' which the springing flower up-rears its head.
Lo here the king-cup of a golden hue,
Medley'd with daifies white, and endive blue!
Hark how the gaudy goldfinch, and the thrush,
With tuneful warblings fill that bramble-bush!
In pleafing concerts all the birds combine,
And tempt us in the various fong to join.
Up, Argol, then; and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or vocal music try:
And, fince our ewes have graz'd, no harm, if they
Lie round and Hften, while their lambkins play.
The place indeed gives pleafance to the eye; And pleafance works the finger's fancy high: The fields breathe sweet; and now the gentle breeze Moves ev'ry leaf, and trembles thro' the trees. So fweet a scene ill fuits my rugged lay,
And better fits the music thou canst play.
No skill of mufic can I, fimple fwain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain:
Albeit fome deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me ;
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has fkill)
My fingers guided on the tuneful quill,
And try'd to teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to fink a note, and where to fwell.
Ah Mico! half my flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his cunning show.
So trim his fonnets are, I prithee, swain,
Now give us once a sample of his strain ;
For wonders of that lad the fhepherds fay,
How fweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay:
The fweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse,
And ask what gift thou pleaseft for thy verse.
Since then thou lift, a mournful fong I chufe;
A mournful fong becomes a mournful muse.
Fast by a river, on a bank he fat,
To weep a lovely maid's untimely fate;
Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she,
Whofe fate he wept; a faithful fhepherd he.
Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
O woeful day! O day of woe! quoth he;
And woeful I, who live the day to fee!
That ever she could die! O moft unkind,
Το go,
and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she,
With dying arms, have clafp'd herself to me:
I clafp'd her too; but death was all too ftrong,
Nor vows, nor tears, could fleeting life prolong.
Teach me to grieve, with bleating moan, my fheep;
Teach me, thou ever-flowing ftream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to figh;
And let my forrows teach me how to die:
Nor flock, nor ftream, nor winds, can e'er relieve
A wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.
Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note exprefs
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's diftrefs.
Ye brighter maids, faint emblems of my fair,
With looks caft down, and with dishevel'd hair,
In bitter anguish beat your breasts, and moan
Her hour untimely, as it were your own.
Alas! the fading glories of your eyes
In vain we doat upon, in vain you prize:
For, tho' your beauty rule the filly swain,
And in his heart like little queens you reign;
Yet death will ev'n that ruling beauty kill,
As ruthless winds the tender bloffoms spill.
If either mufic's voice, or beauty's charm,
Could make him mild, and stay his lifted arm;
My pipe her face, her face my pipe should fave,
Redeeming thus each other from the grave.
Ah fruitlefs wifh! cold death's up-lifted arm
No mufic can perfuade, nor beauty charm:
For fee (O baleful fight!) fee where fhe lies!
The budding flow'r, unkindly blafted, dies.
Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.
Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now
To weave fresh garlands for the damfel's brow?
Throw by the lily, daffodil and rofe;
One of black yew, and willow pale, compose,
With baleful henbane, deadly night-shade dreft;
A garland that may witness thy unrest.
My pipe, whofe foothing found could passion move,
And firft taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Untun'd, fhall hang upon this blasted oak,
Whence owls their dirges fing, and ravens croak:
Nor lark nor linnet fhall by day delight,
Nor nightingale divert my moan by night;
The night and day fhall undiftinguish'd be
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.
Thus fweetly did the gentle fhepherd fing,
And heavy woe within soft numbers bring:
And now that sheep-hook for my fong I crave.
Not this, but one much fairer shalt thou have,
Of feafon'd elm; where ftuds of brass appear,
To speak the giver's name, the month and year;
The hook of polish'd steel, the handle turn'd,
And richly by the graver's skill adorn'd.
O Colinet, how fweet thy grief to hear!
How does thy verse subdue the lift'ning ear!
Not half fo fweet are midnight winds, that move
In drowsy
murmurs o'er the waving grove;
Nor dropping waters, that in grots distil,
And with a tinkling found their caverns fill.
So fing the fwans, that in foft numbers waste
Their dying breath, and warble to the laft:
And next to thee fhall Mico bear the bell,
That can repeat thy peerless verse so well.
But fee! the hills increasing shadows caft:
The fun, I ween, is leaving us in hafte:
His weakly rays but glimmer thro' the wood,
And blueish mists arise from yonder flood.
Then fend our curs to gather up the sheep: Good fhepherds with their flocks betimes fhould fleep; For, he that late lies down, as late will rife, And, fluggard-like, till noon-day fnoring lies; While in their folds his injur'd ewes complain, And after dewy pastures bleat in vain.
THE CONTENDING SHEPHERDS.
HOW ftill the fea! behold, how calm the sky!
And how, in fportive chace, the swallows fly! My goats, fecure from harm, no tendance need, While high on yonder hanging rock they feed: And here below, the banky fhore along Your heifers graze: and I to hear your fong Difpos'd. As eldeft, Hobbinol, begin; And Lanquet's under-fong by turns come in.
Let others meanly stake upon their skill,
Or kid, or lamb, or goat, or what they will;
For praise we fing, nor wager aught befide;
And, whofe the praife, let GERON's lips decide.
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