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A Paftoral BALLAD, in Four Parts.

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Written 1743.

Arbufta bumilefque myrica.

I. ABSENCE.

E fhepherds fo chearful and gay,

never

Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should CORYDON's happen to ftray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to figh,

Nor talk of the change that
None once was fo watchful as I:

ye

find;

-I have left my dear PHYLLIS behind.

Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and defire;

What it is, to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each ev'ning repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

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

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seen how they were originally written.

Since PHYLLIS vouchfaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lofe both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

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,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be fo-
'Twas with pain that she faw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So fweetly fhe bade me adieu,

I thought that fhe bade me return.

The

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To vifit fome far-diftant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,

And folace wherever I go.
my

II. HOPE.

Mwhole murmur invites one to fleep;
Μ

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
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,
But I hafted and planted it there.
Oh how fudden the jeffamine ftrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and
What strains of wild melody flow?
How the nightingales warble their loves.
From thickets of rofes that blow!
And when her bright form fhall appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join

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
How that pity was due to-a dove:
That it ever attended the bold,

And fhe call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I fhould love her the more.

Can a bofom fo gentle remain.

Unmov'd, when her CORYDON fighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of filence and fhade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her abfence, could please.

But where does my PHYLLIDA ftray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the
groves and the valleys as gay,
And the fhepherds as gentle as ours?

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

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