I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
Within a difmal grot, which damps furround,
All cold the lies upon th' unwholesome ground;
The marble weeps, and with a filent pace
It's trickling tears distil upon her face.
Falfely ye weep, ye rocks! and falfely mourn,
For never will you let the nymph return;
With a feign'd grief the faithless tomb relents,
And, like the crocodile, it's prey laments.

O fhe was heav'nly fair in face and mind!
Never in nature were fuch beauties join'd:
Without all shining, and within all white;
Pure to the sense, and pleasing to the fight;
Like some rare flow'r, whose leaves all colours yield,
And opening is with sweetest odours fill'd.

As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly reed,

So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed;
To which excelling height she bore a mind,
Humble as ofiers bending to the wind.
Thus excellent she was-

Ah, wretched fate! fhe was, but is no more,
Help me, ye hills and vallies, to deplore!
I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
From that blefs'd earth on which her body lies,
May blooming flow'rs with fragrant fweets arife!
Let myrrha, weeping aromatick gum,
And ever-living laurel, fhade her tomb!
Thither let all th' induftrious bees repair,

Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there!
Thither let fairies with their train refort,
Neglect their revels and their midnight sport;
There in unusual wailings waste the night,
And watch her by the fiery glow-worm's light!

There may no difmal yew nor cypress grow,
Nor holly-bufh, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his neft,
And diftant dens receive each howling beast:
Let wolves be gone, be ravens put to flight,
With hooting owls, and bats, that hate the light!
But let the fighing doves their forrows bring,
And nightingales in fweet complainings fing;
Let fwans from their forfaken rivers fly,
And, fick'ning at her tomb, make hafte to die,
That they may help to fing her elegy:
Let Echo, too, in mimick moan deplore,
And cry with me, Paftora is no more!

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
And fee, the heav'ns to weep
in dew prepare,
And heavy mifts obfcure the burden'd air ;
A fudden damp o'er all the plain is spread,
Each lily folds it's leaves, and hangs it's head;
On ev'ry tree the bloffoms turn to tears,
And ev'ry bough a weeping moisture bears;
Their wings the feather'd airy people droop,
And flocks beneath their dewy fleeces stoop.

The rocks are cleft, and new-defcending rills
Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills;
The water-gods to floods their riv❜lets turn,

And each with ftreaming eyes fupplies his wanting urn.
The Fauns forfake the woods, the Nymphs the grove,

And round the plain in fad diftractions rove;

In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,

And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

With their sharp nails themselves the Satyrs wound,

And tug their fhaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.

Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak

Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke:

See

}

See Pales weeping, too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bofom bare.

And fee yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears;
See how fhe wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist!
Hear the fad murmurs of her fighing doves;
For grief they figh, forgetful of their loves!
Lo, Love himself, with heavy woes opprefs'd!
See how his forrows fwell his tender breast!

His bow he breaks, and wide his arrows flings,
And folds his little arms, and hangs his drooping wings;
Then lays his limbs upon the dying grafs,

And all with tears bedews his beauteous face:
With tears, which from his folded lids arife ;
And even Love himself has weeping eyes.
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore,
And cry with me, Paftora is no more!

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn, • And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

The rocks can melt, and air in mifts can mourn,
And floods can weep, and winds to fighs can turn;
The birds in fongs their forrows can disclose,
And nymphs and swains in words can tell their woes :
But, oh! behold that deep and wild despair
Which neither winds can fhow, nor floods, nor air.
See the great Shepherd, chief of all the fwains,
Lord of these woods and wide-extended plains,
Stretch'd on the ground, and close to earth his face,
Scalding with tears th' already faded grafs;
To the cold clay he joins his throbbing breast,
No more within Paftora's arms to rest!

No more! for those once soft and circling arms
Themselves are clay, and cold are all her charms:
Cold are thofe lips, which he no more must kifs,
And cold that bofom, once all downy bliss;

On whofe foft pillows, lull'd in fweet delights,
He us'd in balmy fleep to lofe the nights.

Ah! where is all that love and fondness fled
Ah! where is all that tender sweetness laid?
To duft must all that heav'n of beauty come!
And muft Paftora moulder in the tomb!

Ah, Death! more fierce and unrelenting far
Than wildest wolves or favage tigers are;
With lambs and fheep their hungers are appeas'd,
But rav'nous Death the Shepherdess has feiz'd.
I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
⚫ And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn."

But fee, Menalcas, where a fudden light
With wonder ftops my fong and strikes my fight!
And where Paftora lies it spreads around,
Shewing all radiant bright the facred ground;
While from her tomb behold a flame afcends
Of whiteft fire, whofe flight to heav'n extends!
On flaky wings it mounts, and quick as fight,
Cuts thro' the yielding air with rays of light;
Till the blue firmament at last it gains,
And fixing there, a glorious ftar remains:
• Faireft it fhines of all that light the skies,
• As once on earth were feen Paftora's eyes."

Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, fenfe and truth,
Though badly fhap'd he'd been.

His mountain back mote well be faid,
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;

Yet, fpite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within:

But one Sir Topaz drefs'd with art;
And if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my fong,
With flighted paffion pac'd along,
All in the moony light;

'Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made refort
To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was crofs'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

That reach'd the neighbour-town;

With weary steps he quits the fhades, -Refolv'd the darkling dome he treads, And drops his limbs adown.

But fcant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,

And trembling rocks the ground:

And