Nostra, nec erubuit sylvas habitare, Thalia,

Virg. Ecl. vi. 2


LOBBIN. Iz we, o Dorset, quit the city-throng, To meditate in shades the rural song, Br your command, be present: and, O bring The Muse along! the Muse to you shall sing: Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain, And I forgive the fam'd Sicilian swain.

Begin.-In unluxurious times of yore, When flocks and herds were no inglorious store, Lobbin, a shepherd-boy, one evening fair, As western winds had cool'd the sultry air, His number'd sheep within the fold now pent, Thus plain'd him of his dreary discontent; Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs He, solitary, sat to breathe his vows, Venting the tender anguish of his heart, As passion taught, in accents free of art : And little did he hope, while, night by night, His sighs were lavish'd thus on Lucy bright.

." Ah, well-a-day! how long must I endure This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure? Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, Delights in grief, nor any measure knows. And now the Moon begins in clouds to rise; The brightening stars increase within the skies; The wiņils are bush; the devs distil; and sleep Hath clos'd the eyelids of my weary sheep: I only, with the prowling wolf, constrain'd All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd, And I, with love. His hunger he inay tame; Put who can quench, 0 cruel Love, thy flame? Whiom did I, all as this poplar fair, l'p-raise my heedless head, then void of care, Riong rustic routs the chief for wanton game; Nos eould they merry make, till Lobbin came. Who better seen than I in shepherds' arts, To please the lads and win the lasses' hearts !

How deftly, to mine oaten-reed so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet!
And, wearied in the dance, how would they years
Some well-devised tale from me to learn!
For many songs and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the loitering Sun adown the sky:
But, ah! since Lucy coy, deep-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!
Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair.
Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind,
Though not so fair, she would have prov'd more kind.
O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time,
How flying years impair thy youthful prime!
Thy virgin-bloom will not for ever stay,
And flowers, though left ungather'd, will decay :
The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring !
But beauty faded has no second spring.
My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes;
Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads,
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads,
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chase!
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace:
She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.
No crucl purpose, in my speed, I bear;
'Tis only love; and love why shouldst thou fear?
What idle fears a maiden-breast alarm!
Stay, simple girl; a lorer cannot harm.
Two sportive kidlings, both fair-fleck'd, I rear;
Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear:
A lambkin too, of spotless Heece, I breed,
And teach the fundling from my hand to feed:.
Nor will.I ccase betimes to cull the fields
Of every dery sweet the morning yields:
From early spring to antumn late shali thou
Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow:




And when—But why these unavailing pains ? When every slackening nerve begins to fail, The gifts, alike, and giver she disdains:

And the load presscth as our days prerail? And now, left heiress of the glen, she 'll deem Yet, though with years my body downward tend, Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem:

As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend; Yet, was she born, like me, of shepherd-sire; Spite of my snowy bead, and icy veins, And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. My mind a cheerful temper still retains. O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, And why should man, mishap what will, repine, Or could I half the warmth I feel impart,

Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine? How would I wander, every day, to find

But tell me, then : it may relieve thy woe,
The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind! To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree,
How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee!

Idly 't will waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Or! if thou deign to live a shepherdess,

Shouldst thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thou Lobbin's flock and Lobbin shalt possess :

Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs, And, fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I,

In loud complaints, require their absent dams. If liquid fountains flatter not; and why Should liquid fountains Aatter us, yet show The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow? See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close : and I, O! come, my love; nor think th'employment mean,

'Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean,

eye. To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes, Ere the warm Sun drink-up the cooly dews, Where to begin I know not, where to end. While, with my pipe and with my voice, I cheer Does there one smiling hour my youth attend ! Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. Though few my days, as well my follies show, How would the crook beseem thy lily-hand! Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe: How would my younglings round thee gazing stand! No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear, Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye, My lowering sky and wintery months to cheer. Thence all my sorrow; thence the death I die. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, O, killing beauty! and 0, sore desire !

Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see: Must then my sufferings, but with life, expire? Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, Though blossoms every year the trees adorn, 'The mark of storms, and sport of every wind: Spring after spring 1 wither, nipt with scorn: The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring; Nor trow I wben this bitter blast will end,

Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend.

No more, bencath thy shade, shall shepherds throng,
Sleep, sleep, my flock; for, happy, ye inay take With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake.” | 11l-fated tree! and more ill-fated I !

Now to the waning Moon the nightingale, From thee, froin ine, alike the shepherds fly.
In slender warblings, tun'd her piteous tale;
The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief,
Pleas'd with so sweet a partner in his grief,

Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
Till, by degrees, her notes and silent Night

When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn,

Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass, To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite.

To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass ;
Or when the Moon, by wizard charm'd, foren


Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.

Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee still.

And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Is it not Colinet I lonesome see,
Leaning with folded arms against the tree? Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?

From this good shepherd's care his flock may keep: 'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woful plight.

Against ill-luck, alas ! all forecast fails; Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,

Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, arails.
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears !

Why in this mounful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things sinile around?

Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing,

Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the Spring ?

Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood.

Ah, silly I! more silly than nuy sheep,
Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate; Which on thy Bowery banks I wont to keep.
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state. Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I once more,
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born;

With ravish'd eges, review thine amell’d shore ? As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.

When, in the crystal of thy water, scan Waking, at midnight, I my wocs renew,

Each feature faded and my colour wan?
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.

When shall I see my hut, the small abude

Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod ?
Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain: Small though it be, a mean and humble cen,
Or who may, then, the weigbt of eld sustain,. Yet is there room for Peace and me to dwell







And now behold the Sun's departing ray, And what enticement charm'd thee, far away D'er yonder bill, the sign of ebbing day: From thy lor'd home, and led thy heart astray? With songs the jovial hinds return from plow;

And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.
A lewd desire, strange lads and swains to know:
Ah, God! that I ever should covet woe!
With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.


Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
In search of gains more plenty than at home? When Virgil thought no shame the Doric reed
A rolling-stone is ever bare of moss;

To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

With young Augustus' name he grac'd his songs

And Spenser, when amid the rural throng
Small need there was, in random search of gain,

He carol'd sweet, and graz'd along the flood
To drive my pining Rock athwart the plain,

Of gentle Thames, made every sounding wood To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,

With good Eliza's name to ring around; To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!

Eliza's name on every tree was found : My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare, Since, then, through Anna's cares at ease we live, And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,

And see our cattle unmolested thrive,

While from our Albion her victorious arms
The damp cold greensward for my nightly bed,
And some slant willow's trunk to rest my head,

Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms,
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;

Like them will I my slender music raise, And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain:

And teach the vocal valleys Anna's praise, But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,

Meantime, on oaten pipe, a lowly lay, To blasting storms of calumny comparid:

As my kids browse, obscure in shades I play: Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower

Yet, not obscure, while Dorset thinks no scorn

To visit woods, and swains ignobly born. Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

Two valley swains, both musical, both young, THENOT.

In friendship mutual, and united long, Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: Retire within a mossy cave, to shun And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue ? The crowd of shepherds, and the noon-day sun. COLINET.

A gloom of sadness overcasts their mind : l'ntoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,

Revolving now, the solemn day they find, Make mock of all the ditties I indite.

When young Albino died. His image dear In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,

Bedeu's their cheeks with many a trickling tear: Charms every vale and gladdens every hill:

To tears they add the tribute of their verse;
In rain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,

These Angelot, those Palin, did rehearse.
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;

Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return; And every elf hath skill enough to rail:

And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn. But yet, though poor and artless be my vein, Sent into life, alas ! how short thy stay: Menalcas seems to like my simple strain:

How sweet the rose ! how speedy to decay !
And, while that he delighteth in my song,

Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong, Sad-sounding wide from every village bell?
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude music cease; Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd,
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd,

Presaging future woe, when, for our crimes, Meralcas, lord of these fair fertile plains,

We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times, Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns: Fair boast of this fair Island, darling joy For him vur yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold,

Of nobles high, and every shepherd-boy? And choose the fairest firstlings from the fold:

No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen, He, good to all, who good deserve, shall give

Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green, Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,

No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the food, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,

No birds were heard to warble through the wood, And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

In yonder gloomy grove out-stretch'd he lay

His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;

On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd,
First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly; And o'er his lips the deadly blue display'd:
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,

Bleating around him lie bis plaintive sheep, And every rapid river cease to flow,

And mourning shepherds come in crowds to weep. Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

Young Buckhurst comes; and, is there no redress? THENOT.

As if the grave regarded our distress ! This night thy care with me forget; and fold The tender virgins come, to tears yet new, Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. And give, aloud, the lamentations due. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, The pious mother comes, with grief opprest: With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, Ye trees, and conscious fountains, can attest Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night, With what sad accents, and what piercing cries, Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite: She lill'd the grove, and import:un'd the skics,


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PHILIPS'S POEMS. And every star upbraided with his death,

Nor fail to mention thee in all our cheer, When, in her widow'd arms, devoid of breath, And teach our children the remembrance dear, She clasp'd her son: nor did the nymph, for this, When we our shearing-feast, or harvest keep, Place in her darling's welfare all her bliss,

To speed the plough, and bless our thriving sheep. Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield, While willow kids, and herbage lambs pursue, And rule the peaceful empire of the field.

While bees love thyme, and locusts sip the dew, As milk-white swans on streams of silver show, While birds delight in woods their notes to strain, And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow, Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn, So thou, to thine, an ornament wast born. Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains, Th' ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,

In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,

And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat;
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;

And thorns and thistles overspread the field. Tuis place may seem for shepherd's leisure made,
How all our hope is filed like morning dew! So close these elms inweare their lofty shade;
And scarce did we thy darn of manhood view. The twining woodbine, how it climbs to breathe
Who, now, shall teach the pointed spear to throw, Refreshing sweets around on all beneath :
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow, The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,

Through which the springing flower up-rears the With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar ?

Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days, Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue,
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise, Medley'd with daisies white and endive blue,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,

And honeysuckles of a purple dye,
And add new glories to the British name:

Confusion gay! bright waving to the eye. 0, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest!

Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush, The flowery turf lie light upon thy breast;

The gaudy goldfinch, and the speckly thrush,
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round, The linnet green, with others fram'd for skill,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground.

And blackbird Auting through his yellow bill :
In sprightly concert how they all combine,

Us prompting in the various songs to join :
No more, mistaken Angelot, complain:
Albino lives; and all our tears are vain :

Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply
Albino lives, and will for ever live,

Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding, try: With myriads mixt who never know to grieve,

And since our ewes have graz'd, what harms if they Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear

Lie round and listen while the lambkins play? Ever to mourn his absence with a tear; Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy, Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy : Fair Nature's bounties in the fairest dress : And now the royal nymph who bore him deigns "T is rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky; The land to rule, and shield the simple swains, And rapture works the singer's fancy high. While, from above, propitious he looks down: Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breeze For this, the welkin docs no longer frown.

Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees: Each planet shines, indulgent, from bis sphere,

Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay,
And we renew our pastimes with the year.

Befitting more the music thou canst play.
Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes resound:
The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd, No skill of music kon I, simple swain,
And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring

No fine device thine ear to entertain :
Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring

Albeit some deal 1 pipe, rude though it be, The laurel green, the smelling eglantine,

Sufficient to divert my sheep and me; And tender branches from the mantling vine,

Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill) The dewy cowslip which in meadow grows,

Oft guides my fingers on the tuneful quill, The fountain violet, and the gardeu rose,

And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell, Marsh-lilies sweet, and tufts of daffodil,

And where to sink a note, and where to swell.
With what ye cull from wood or verdant hill,
Whether in open sun or shade they blow,

More early some, and some unfolding slow,

Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow, Bring in heap'd canisters of every kind,

Should Colinet to me his cunning show : As if the summer had with spring combin'd,

So trim his sonnets are, I pr’ythee, swain, And Nature, forward to assist your care,

Now give us, once, a sample of his strain: Did not profusion for Albino spare.

For wonders of that lad the shepherds say, Your hamlets strew, and every public way;

How sweet his pipe, how ravishing bis lay ! And consecrate to mirth Albino's day:

The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse; Myself will lavish all my little store,

And ask what boon thou willest for thy verse.
And deal abont the goblet flowing o'er:

Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing, Since then thou list, a mournful song I chooses
And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring, A mournful sung relieves a mournful Muse.
And Hobbinol his antic gambols play;

Fast by the river on a bank he sate,
To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay; To weep the lovely maid's umtimely fate,



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Hair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she,

Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile,
Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he. And every twil of Colinet beguile.”
Awake, my pipe; in every note express

Awake, my pipe; in every note erpress
Pair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. “O woeful day! O day of woe to me!

“ Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose ; That ever I should live such day to see!

Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose, That ever she could die! ( most unkind,

With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, drest, To go and leave thy Colinet behind !

Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest, From blameless love and plighted troth to go, If aught can witness: 0, ye shepherds, tell, And leave to Colinet a life of woe!

When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well!" Auake, my pipe ; in every note erpress

Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Siella's death and Colinel's distress.

Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. “ And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she “ Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb, With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me: By Stella nurs'd, who wean'd thee from the dam, I clasp'd her too, but Death prov'd over-strong: What heed give I to aught but to my grief, Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong: My whole employment, and my whole relief! Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain? Stray where ye list, some happier master try : And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain!" Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I.” Auake, my pipe; in every note erpress

Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. “ Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;

move, Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh,

And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love, And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die.

Shall silent hang upon this blasted oak, Me flock, nor stream, nor winds, nor woes, relieve; Whence owls their dirges sing, and ravens croak: She lov'd through life, and I through life will grieve.” Nor lark, nor linnet, shall my day delight, Awake, my pipe ; in every note express

Nor nightingale suspend my moan by night: Pair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

The night and day shall undistinguish'd be, “ Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair,

Alike to Stella, and alike to me.”
With downcast look, and with dishevell’d hair, No more, my pipe; here cease we to express
All beat the breast, and wring your hands, and moan; Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.
Her hour, untimely, might have prov'd your own:

Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing, Her hour, untimely, help me to lament;

And urge the valley with his wail to ring. And let your hearts at Stella's name relent.”

And now that sheep-hook for my song I crave. Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

Not this, but one more costly, shalt thou have, “ In vain th endearing lustre of your eyes Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear, We dote upon, and you as vainly prize.

To speak the giver's name, the month, and year;
What though your beauty bless the faithful swain, The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd,
And in th’ enamour'd heart like queens ye reign;

And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd.
Yet in their prime does Death the fairest kill,
As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.”

0, Colinet, how sweet thy grief to hear!

How does thy verse sub lue the listening ear! Awake, my pipe; in every note erpress

Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew, Fair Stella's death and Colinets distress.

To slake the drought, and herbage to renew: “ Such Stella was; yet Stella might not live! Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which move And what could Colinet in ransom give?

In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove, Oh! if or Music's voice, or Beauty's charm, Nor valley brook that, hid by alders, speeds Could milden Death, and stay his lifted arm, O’er pebbles warbling, and through whispering reeds, My pipe her face, her face my pipe might save, Nor dropping waters, which from rocks distil, Redeeming each the other from the grave." And welly-grots with tinkling echoes fill. Awake, my pipe; in every note express

Thrice happy Colinet, who can relieve Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress.

Heart-anguish sore, and make it sweet to grieve!

And next to thee shall Myco bear the bell, “ Ah, fruitless wish! fell Death's uplifted arm

Who can repeat thy peerless song so well; Nor Beauty can arrest, nor Music charm.

But see! the hills increasing shadows cast; Behold! oh, baleful sight! see where she lies!

The Sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste: The budding flower, unkindly blasted, dies :

His weakly rays faint glimmer through the wood, Nor, though I live the longest day to mourn,

And bluey mists arise from yonder flood. Will she again to life and me return.”

MYCO. Awake, my pipe; in every note express

Bid then our dogs to gather in the sheep. (sleep. Fair Stella's death and Colinets distress.

Good shepherds, with their fock, betimes should “ Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now, Who late lies down, thou know'st, as late will rise, To weave fresh girlonds for thy Stella's brow And, sluggard-like, to noon-day snoring lies, Nor girlond ever more may Stella wear,

While in the fold bis injur'd ewes complain, Nor see the flowery season of the year,

And after dewy pastures bleat in vain. VOL. XlI.



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