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ENGLISH ECLOGUES.

VOL. III.

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THE following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by what was told me of the German Idylls by my friend Mr. William Taylor of Norwich. So far, therefore, these pieces may be deemed imitations, though I am not acquainted with the German language at present, and have never seen any translations or specimens in this kind.

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, "more silly than their sheep," have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after another. Gay struck into a new path. His eclogues were the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. The subject would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it.

1799.

I.

THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.

STRANGER.

OLD friend! why you seem bent on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,.. and 't is a task Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours!

OLD MAN.

Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back!.. I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago

The beautifying of this mansion here,

When my late Lady's father, the old Squire,
Came to the estate.

STRANGER.

Why then you have outlasted

All his improvements, for you see they 're making

Great alterations here.

OLD MAN.

Aye.. great indeed!

And if my poor old Lady could rise up

God rest her soul ! 't would grieve her to behold
What wicked work is here.

STRANGER.

They've set about it

In right good earnest. All the front is gone;

Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road

Round to the door. There were some yew trees too Stood in the court...

OLD MAN.

Aye, Master! fine old trees!

Lord bless us! I have heard my father say
His grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 't was a pleasure to me;
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old lady many a time would come
And tell me where to clip, for she had play'd
In childhood under them, and 't was her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
And your pert poplar trees; .
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!

...

STRANGER.

I could as soon

But 't will be lighter and more chearful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road
That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate.
I like a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ;
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the snow-ball flower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings

Waving in the wind: And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,

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