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Thy feasting tables shall be hills

With daisies spread, and daffodils;

Where thou shalt sit, and redbreast by,
For meat, shall give thee melody:
I'll give thee chains, and carcanets
Of primroses and violets;

A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought, and this as brave;
So that as either shall express

The wearer's no mean shepherdess:
At shearing times, and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be, and be the wit,
Nay more, the feast and grace of it:
On holidays, when virgins meet
To dance the hays with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth, and then appear
The queen of roses for that year;
And, having danced 'bove all the best,
Carry the garland from the rest:
In wicker baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherdling,
The blushing apple, bashful pear,

And shamefaced plum, all simpering there:
Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind

Of every straight and smooth-skinn'd tree;
Where, kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee:
To thee a sheephook I will send,
Beprank'd with ribands, to this end,
That this alluring hook might be
Less for to catch a sheep than me:
Thou shalt have possets; wassails fine,
Not made of ale, but spiced wine;

To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glittering hearth:
Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings
Of winning colours, that shall move、
Others to lust, but me to love:

These, nay, and more thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love and live with me.

HERRICK.

A PASTORAL REMONSTRANCE.

O, TARRY, gentle traveller;

O, tarry now at setting day; Nor haste to leave this lowly vale For lofty mountains far away.

O, tell me what has tempted thee

Through woods and dreary wilds to roam; O, tell me what has tempted thee To quit thy cot and peaceful home.

Say, hast thou not a partner dear

That's constant to thy love and kind?
And wilt thou leave her faithful side,
Nor cast one sorrowing look behind?
Yon sun that gilds the village spire,
And gaily flings his parting ray,
Say, smiles he not as sweetly o'er
Thy native village far away?
Does mad ambition lure thy steps

To wander in the paths of strife?
Oh, think how swift thy minutes fly!
Ah, think how short thy span of life!

For life is like yon crimson beam

That trembles in the western skies; Full soon, alas! its glories cease;

It sparkles-glimmers-fades and dies. O, waste not then thy fleeting hours In foreign climes and paths unknown; Return thee to the happy plains

That bounteous nature made thy own. For me, nor gold, nor princely power, Nor purple vest, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophied grandeur boasts Shall lure me from my tranquil home. This rustic cot and silent shade

Shall evermore my dwelling be;
E'en when my destined days are spent
I'll rest beneath yon aged tree.

Beside the brook a simple stone
Shall serve to guard my cold remains,
And tell the pilgrims, as they pass,
I died amidst my native plains.

Return then, gentle traveller,

Return thee with the morning ray;

Nor leave again thy lowly vale,
For distant mountains far away.

ANONYMOUS.

PASTORAL ODE.

O SWEETEST of the feather'd quire,

O! thrush and blackbird of the wood, Where will ye now to rest retire?

Where seek ye now your wonted food?

Lo! how around the wintry snows

Fast from the darken'd sky descend, With hollow sound the north wind blows, While to its blast the tall trees bend. O hapless birds! in vam the lake

Or stream ye seek with weary wings, No more the pool your thirst can slake, The frost has bound the limpid springs. In vain ye seek the well known fields,

The well known wood in vain ye try; The naked wood no shelter yields,

No food the barren fields supply. Nor may ye yet of man implore

To save you from the storms awhile: O, may his gun not wound you sore, Nor may his net your feet beguile! More cruel than the wintry wind,

With level'd gun and fatal snare, The tyrant of your gentle kind,

He spares not whom the tempests spare. And have ye sung, sweet birds, so long Beneath the summer sun in vain? And will no one requite your song, Which wont so oft to charm the plain? Lo! in this bower, within these bounds, Where oft melodious voices swell, Where oft the tuneful flute resounds; Lo, in this bower the Muses dwell. The Muses, gentle maids, bemoan

The sorrows of the feathered throng, Whose voices, tuneful as their own, Warble, untaught, the woods among.

VOL. II.

RR

The Muses smile not that the quire

Of birds are barr'd their notes of joy,
Nor will they with the winds conspire
The harmless songsters to annoy.

O, seek ye then this friendly bower,
Which to the Muses still belongs;
Here shall ye prove their sacred power

To save the feather'd race from wrongs : Here from the northern winds that blow The hill with pine-trees clad defends, While its soft lap the vale below

Fair to the noontide sun extends.

And here the sullen months to cheer
The flowering laurestine will bloom,
The holly shows its berries near,

That shine amid the wintry gloom.
And many a shady walk is found,
Where twining laurels form a grove,
Where firs their green tribes scatter round,
And yew with cypress dark is wove.
And where the sheltering groves extend,
Due food for hapless birds we fling;
The fruits that reddening hawthorns lend,
The grain that yellow harvests bring.

O, seek ye then this green retreat,

And through these groves of laurel stray, Till vernal suns with genial heat

Shall chase the wintry clouds away.

Here first the balmy zephyr blows,

And first the woods are clad with green,

Here earliest yellow crocus grows,

And earliest are blue violets seen.

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