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Her charms united never can supply
The tender bofom and the pitying eye.
More lovely far the plainest face appears,
Grac'd with the elegance of Virtue's tears ;
And far beyond all wealth, the heart that glows
With the sweet sympathy of human woes !
THE FINAL FAREWELL.
UNDERNEATH this stone doth lic
As much virtue as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.
If she had a single fault,
Leave it bury'd in this vault.
HY cloudy looks why melting thus in tears,
Unseemly, now that heaven. so blithe appears ?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Hear how the lark and linnet jointly fing,
Their notes soft-warbling to the gladsome spring!
Tho' soft their notes, not so my wayward fate :
Nor lark would fing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature to his proper task is born ;
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
And with my tears increase the falling dew.
Small cause, I ween, has lufty youth to plain ;
Or who may then the weight of age sustain,
When, as our waning strength does daily cease,
The tiresome burthen doubles its increase ?
Yet tho' with years my body downwards tend,
As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend;
My mind a cheerful temper still retains,
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins :
For, why should man at cross mishaps repine,
Sour all his sweet, and mix with tears his wine ?
But speak : for much it may relieve thy woe
To let a friend thy inward ailment know.
'Twill idly waste thee, Thenot, a whole day, Shouldst thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thy ewes will wander, and thy heedless lambs With loud complaints require their absent dams.
There's Lightfoot, he shall tend them close; and I, "Twixt whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye..
Where to begin I know not, where to end :
Scarce does one smiling hour my youth attend.
Tho' few my days, as my own follies show,
Yet all those days are clouded o’er with woe ::
No gleam of happy fun-fhine does appear,
My lowering sky, and wintry days, to cheer.
My piteous plight, in yonder naked tree
That bears the thunder-fcar, too well I fee ;
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms and sport of every wind :
Its riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring,
Nor any birds among the branches sing.
No more beneath thy shade shall shepherds throng
With merry tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Unhappy tree! and more unhappy I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.
Sure thou in some ill-chosen hour waft born, When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn; Or when the moon, by witchcraft charm’d, foreshows Thro' sad eclipse a various train of woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee ftill.
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Nor wolf, nor fox, nor rot, amongst our sheep ;
From these the shepherd's care his flock may keep:
Against ill luck all cunning forefight fails ;
Whether we sleep or wake, it nought avails.
Ah me the while ! ah me the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! the rather might I say.
Unhappy hour! when first, in youthful bud,
I left the fair Sabrina's silver flood :
Ah filly I! more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks I once did keep.
Sweet are thy banks! oh when shall I once more
• With longing eyes review thy flow'ry shore ?
When, in the crystal of thy water, see
My face, grown wan thro' care and misery?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself had rais'd, and cover'd o'er with fod?
Tho' small it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room
and me to dwell.
And what the cause that drew thee first away?
From thy lov'd home what tempted thee to stray ?
A lewd desire strange lands and swains to know :
Ah God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wand'ring feet, unbless’d and fond of fame,
I fought I know not what, besides a name.
Or, footh to say, didst thou not hither roam
In hopes of wealth thou couldst not find at home!
A rolling stone is ever bare of moss :
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.
Small need there was, in fatt'ring hopes of gain, To drive my pining flock athwart the plain To distant Cam : fine gain at length, I trow, , To hoard up to myself such deal of woe ! My sheep quite spent thro' travel and ill fare, And, like their keeper, ragged grow and bare : Here, on cold earth to make my nightly bed, And on a bending willow rest my
head. 'Tis hard to bear the. pinching cold with pain, And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain: But neither want nor pinching cold is hard, To blasting storms of calumny comparid: Unkind as hail it falls, whose pelting show'rs Destroy the tender herb and budding flow'rs.
Slander, we shepherds count the greatest wrong ; For, what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?
Untoward lads, who pleasance take in spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill,
Charms ev'ry vale, and gladdens ev'ry hill :
In vain thou seek's the cov’rings of the grove,
In the cool shades to sing the heats of love;
No passion, but rank envy, canst thou move.