"Adieu my flocks, he faid! my wonted care, By funny mountain, or by verdant fhore! May fome more happy hand your fold prepare,
And may you need your COLLIN's crook no more.
And you, ye fhepherds! lead my gentle sheep;
To breezy hills, or leafy fhelters lead;
But if the fky with fhow'rs inceffant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.
Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
Long-loit'ring there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend!
Ah! what avails the tim'rous lambs to guard,
Tho' nightly cares, with daily labours, join?
If foreign floth obtain the rich reward,
If GALLIA's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin!!
Was it for this, by conftant vigils worn,
I met the terrors of an early grave?
For this, I led them from the pointed thorn?
For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?
Ah heedlefs ALBION ! too benignly prone
Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!
Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-ey'd prudence never yet be thine?
From the fair natives of this peerless hill
Thou gav'st the sheep that browze Iberian plains:
Their plaintive cries the faithless region fill,
Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains.
Ill-fated flocks' from cliff to cliff they ftray;
Far from their dams their native guardians far!
Where the foft fhepherd, all the livelong day,
Chaunts his proud mistress to his hoarse guittar.
But ALBION's youth her native fleece despise;
Unmov'd they hear the pining fhepherd's moan;
In filky folds each nervous limb difguife,
Allur❜d by ev'ry treasure, but their own.
Oft have I hurry'd down the rocky steep,
Anxious, to see the wintry tempeft drive;
Preferve, faid I, preferve your fleece, my fheep!
Ere long will PHILLIS, will my love arrive.
Ere long she came: ah! woe is me, she came!
Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine:
For gifts like these they give their spotless fame,
Refign their bloom, their innocence refign.
Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles known,
Give the rich growth of British hills to fame?
And let her charms, and her example, own
That virtue's drefs, and beauty's are the fame ?
F 2
Will no fam'd chief fupport this gen'rous maid:
Once more the patriot's arduous path resume ?
And, comely from his native plains array'd,
Speak future glory to the British loom?
What pow'r unseen my ravish'd fancy fires?
I pierce the dreary shade of future days;
Sure 'tis the genius of the land inspires,
To breathe my latest breath in *
O might my breath for * * * praise suffice,
How gently shou'd my dying limbs repose !
O might his future glory blefs mine eyes,
My ravish'd eyes! how calmly wou'd they close!
was born to spread the gen❜ral joy;
By virtue rapt, by party uncontroul'd;
BRITONS for BRITAIN fhall the crook employ;
BRITONS for BRITAIN'S glory fhear the fold."
GAIN the lab'ring hind inverts the foil;
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another spring renews the foldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.
As the soft lyre display'd my wonted loves,
The penfive pleasure and the tender pain,
The fordid ALPHEUS hurry'd thro' my groves;
Yet stop'd to vent the dictates of difdain.
He glanc'd contemptuous o'er my ruin'd fold;
He blam'd the graces of my fav'rite bow'r;
My breaft, unfully'd by the luft of gold;
My time, unlavish'd in pursuit of pow'r.
Yes, ALPHEUS! fly the purer paths of fate;
Abjure these scenes from venal paffions free
Know, in this grove, I vow'd perpetual hate,
War, endless war, with lucre and with thee.
Here nobly zealous, in my youthful hours,
I dreft an altar to THALIA's name:
Here as I crown'd the verdant fhrine with flow'rs,
Soft on my labours ftole the smiling dame.
DAMON, fhe cry'd, if pleas'd with honest praise,
Thou court fuccefs by virtue or by fong,
Fly the falfe dictates of the venal race;
Fly the grofs accents of the venal tongue.
Swear that no lucre fhall thy zeal betray;
Swerve not thy foot with fortune's votʼries more; Brand thou their lives, and brand their lifeless dayThe winning phantom urg'd me, and I fwore.
Forth from the ruftic altar fwift I stray'd,
"Aid my firm purpose, ye celeftial pow'rs! Aid me to quell the fordid breast, I said; And threw my jav'lin tow'rds their hostile tow'rs.
Think not regretful I furvey the deed;
Or added years no more the zeal allow;
Still, still obfervant to the grove I speed,
The shrine embellifh, and repeat the vow.
Sworn from his cradle ROME's relentless foe,
Such gen'rous hate the + Punic champion bore;
Thy lake, OTHRASIMENE! beheld it glow,
And CANNE'S walls, and TREBIA's crimfon fhore.
* The Roman ceremony in declaring war.
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