THE FIRST PASTORAL. LOBBIN. I we, O Dorset, quit the city-throng, To meditate in shades the rural song, By 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. “Ab, 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 winds are hush; the dews distil; and sleep Hath clos'd the eyelids of my weary sheep: I only, with the prowling wolf, coustrain'd All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd, And I, with love. His hunger he may tame; But who can quench, O cruel Love, thy flame? Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair, Up-raise my heedless head, then void of care, 'Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game; Nor could they merry make, till Lobbin came. Who better seen than I in shepherds' arts, To please the lads and win the lasses' hearts! Virg. Ecl. vi. 2. How deftly, to mine oaten-reed so sweet, And when-But why these unavailing pains? The gifts, alike, and giver she disdains: And now, left heiress of the glen, she 'll deem Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem: Yet, was she born, like me, of shepherd-sire; And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, Or could I half the warmth I feel impart, How would I wander, every day, to find The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind! For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree, How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee! Or! if thou deign to live a shepherdess, Thou Lobbin's flock and Lobbin shalt possess: And, fair my flock, nor yet uncomely 1, If liquid fountains flatter not; and why Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow? O! come, my love; nor think th' employment mean, The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean, To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes, Ere the warm Sun drink-up the cooly dews, While, with my pipe and with my voice, I cheer Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. How would the crook beseem thy lily-hand! How would my younglings round thee gazing stand! Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye, Thence all my sorrow; thence the death I die. O, killing beauty! and O, sore desire! Must then my sufferings, but with life, expire? Though blossoms every year the trees adorn, Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn: Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end, Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend. Sleep, sleep, my flock; for, happy, ye may take Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake." Now to the waning Moon the nightingale, 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, Till, by degrees, her notes and silent Night To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite. COLINET. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day! THENOT. And what enticement charm'd thee, far away From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray? COLINET. A lewd desire, strange lads and swains to know: THENOT. Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam COLINET. Small need there was, in random search of gain, THENOT. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue? COLINET. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite, And now behold the Sun's departing ray, O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day: With songs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low. THE THIRD PASTORAL ALBINO. WHEN Virgil thought no shame the Doric reed Two valley swains, both musical, both young, ANGELOT. Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return; And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn. Sent into life, alas! how short thy stay: How sweet the rose! how speedy to decay! Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell, Sad-sounding wide from every village bell? Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd, That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd, Presaging future woe, when, for our crimes, We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times, Fair boast of this fair Island, darling joy Of nobles high, and every shepherd-boy? No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen, Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green, No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood, No birds were heard to warble through the wood. 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, And o'er his lips the deadly blue display'd: Bleating around him lie his plaintive sheep, And mourning shepherds come in crowds to weep. Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress? As if the grave regarded our distress! The tender virgins come, to tears yet new, And give, aloud, the lamentations due. The pious mother comes, with grief opprest: Ye trees, and conscious fountains, can attest With what sad accents, and what piercing cries, She fill'd the grove, and importun'd the skies, And every star upbraided with his death, PALIN. No more, mistaken Angelot, complain: Albino lives; and all our tears are vain: Albino lives, and will for ever live, With myriads mixt who never know to grieve, Who welcome every stranger-guest, nor fear Ever to mourn his absence with a tear; Where cold, nor heat, nor irksome toil annoy, Nor age, nor sickness, comes to damp their joy: And now the royal nymph who bore him deigns The land to rule, and shield the simple swains, While, from above, propitious he looks down: For this, the welkin does no longer frown. Each planet shines, indulgent, from his sphere, And we renew our pastimes with the year. Hills, dales, and woods, with shrilling pipes resound: The boys and virgins dance, with chaplets crown'd, And hail Albino blest: the valleys ring Albino blest! O now, if ever, bring The laurel green, the smelling eglantine, And tender branches from the mantling vine, The dewy cowslip which in meadow grows, The fountain violet, and the garden rose, Marsh-lilies sweet, and tufts of daffodil, With what ye cull from wood or verdant hill, Whether in open sun or shade they blow, More early some, and some unfolding slow, Bring in heap'd canisters of every kind, As if the summer had with spring combin'd, And Nature, forward to assist your care, Did not profusion for Albino spare. Your hamlets strew, and every public way; And consecrate to mirth Albino's day: Myself will lavish all my little store, And deal about the goblet flowing o'er: Old Moulin there shall harp, young Myco sing, And Cuddy dance the round amid the ring, And Hobbinol his antic gambols play; To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay; Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue, ARGOL. Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express MYCO. No skill of music kon I, simple swain, Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill) ARGOL. Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow, MYCO. Since then thou list, a mournful song I choose: Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she, Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he. Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "O woeful day! O day of woe to me! Awake, my pipe; in every note express "And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she With dying arms have clasp'd herself to me: I clasp'd her too, but Death prov'd over-strong: Nor vows nor tears could fleeting life prolong: Yet how shall I from vows and tears refrain? And why should vows, alas! and tears be vain!" Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "Aid me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, Aid me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep; Aid me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh, And thou, my woe, assist me thou to die. Me flock, nor stream, nor winds, nor woes, relieve; She lov'd through life, and I through life will grieve." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "Ye gentler maids, companions of my fair, With downcast look, and with dishevell'd hair, All beat the breast, and wring your hands, and moan; Her hour, untimely, might have prov'd your own: Her hour, untimely, help me to lament; And let your hearts at Stella's name relent." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "In vain th' endearing lustre of your eyes Awake, my pipe; in every note express "Ah, fruitless wish! fell Death's uplifted arm Awake, my pipe; in every note express "Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now, VOL. XIII. Nor dance, nor sing, nor ever sweetly smile, And every toil of Colinet beguile." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "Throw by the lily, daffodil, and rose; Wreaths of black yew, and willow pale, compose, With baneful hemlock, deadly nightshade, drest, Such chaplets as may witness thine unrest, If aught can witness: O, ye shepherds, tell, When I am dead, no shepherd lov'd so well!" Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "Alack, my sheep! and thou, dear spotless lamb, By Stella nurs'd, who wean'd thee from the dam, What heed give I to aught but to my grief, My whole employment, and my whole relief! Stray where ye list, some happier master try: Yet once, my flock, was none so blest as I." Awake, my pipe; in every note express Fair Stella's death and Colinet's distress. "My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion move, And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love, No more, my pipe; here cease we to express Thus, sorrowing, did the gentle shepherd sing, And urge the valley with his wail to ring. And now that sheep-hock for my song I crave. ARCOL. Not this, but one more costly, shalt thou have, Of season'd elm, where studs of brass appear, To speak the giver's name, the month, and year; The hook of polish'd steel, the handle torn'd, And richly by the carver's skill adorn'd. O, Colinet, how sweet thy grief to hear! How does thy verse subdue the listening ear! Soft falling as the still, refreshing dew, To slake the drought, and herbage to renew: Not half so sweet the midnight winds, which move In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove, Nor valley brook that, hid by alders, speeds O'er pebbles warbling, and through whispering reeds, Nor dropping waters, which from rocks distil, And welly-grots with tinkling echoes fill. Thrice happy Colinet, who can relieve Heart-anguish sore, and make it sweet to grieve! And next to thee shall Myco bear the bell, Who can repeat thy peerless song so well; But see! the hills increasing shadows cast; The Sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste: His weakly rays faint glimmer through the wood, And bluey mists arise from yonder flood. MYCO. Bid then our dogs to gather in the sheep. [sleep. Good shepherds, with their flock, betimes should Who late lies down, thou know'st, as late will rise, And, sluggard-like, to noon-day snoring lies, While in the fold his injur'd ewes complain, And after dewy pastures bleat in vain. I |