* A Paftoral BALLAD, in Four Parts. Y Written 1743. Arbufta bumilefque myrica. I. ABSENCE. E fhepherds fo chearful and gay, never Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Nor talk of the change that ye find; -I have left my dear PHYLLIS behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove What it is, to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. VIRG. -I have bade my dear PHYLLIS farewel. * The J1⁄2 Pastoral Songs, were divsfted, Since too much of their easy unaffected simplicity by the elaborate corrections of 9: Sherstons and his friends: at the end of this volume it may seen how they were originally written. Since PHYLLIS vouchfaf'd me a look, But why do I languish in vain? Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown ; Alas! where with her I have stray'd, dear? I could wander with pleafure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, I thought that fhe bade me return. The The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. And folace wherever I go. II. HOPE. Mwhole murmur invites one to fleep; Y banks they are furnish'd with bees, My grottos are shaded with trees, And my hills are white-over with fheep. I feldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains beftow; My fountains all border'd with mofs, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there feen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a fweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold: Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One One would think fhe might like to retire From the plains, from the woodlands and In a concert so soft and fo clear, As he may not be fond to refign. I have found out a gift for my fair; groves, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, fhe aver'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have I have heard her with sweetness unfold And fhe call'd it the fifter of love. Can a bofom fo gentle remain. Unmov'd, when her CORYDON fighs! Soft fcenes of contentment and ease! But where does my PHYLLIDA ftray? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The fwains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mire. VOL. I. III. SOL |