Bat if my Lycidas will ease my pains,
And often visit our forsaken plains,

To him the towering ash shall yield in woods ;
In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods.

MEL. These rhymes I did to memory commend,
When vanquish'd Thyrsis did in vain contend;
Since when 'tis Corydon among the swains,
Young Corydon without a rival reigns,

THE EIGHTH FASTORAL;

OR, PHARMACEUTRIA,

THE ARGUMENT.

Tuis pastoral contains the songs of Damon and Alphesibus. The first of them bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopsus. The other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavoured, by her spells and magic, to make Daphnis in love with her.

THE mournful Muse of two despairing swains,
The love rejected, and the lover's pains,
To which the savage lynxes listening stood,
The rivers stood on heaps, and stopp'd the running
flood:

The hungry herd their needful food refuse;
Of two despairing swains I sing the mournful Muse.
Great Pollio, thou for whom thy Rome prepares
The ready triumph of thy finish'd wars,
Whether Timavus or th' Illyrian coast,
Whatever land or sea thy presence boast;
Is there an hour in fate reserv'd for me,
To sing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee?
In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse
Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy labour'd verse;
The world another Sophocles in thee,
Another Homer should behold in me:
Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine,

Thine was my earliest Muse; my latest shall be thine.

drew; Searce from the world the shades of night withScarce were the flocks refresh'd with morning dew, When Damon, stretch'd beneath an olive shade, And wildly staring upwards, thus inveigh'd Against the conscious gods, and curs'd the cruel maid:

"Star of the morning, why dost thou delay?
Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging day?
While I my Nisa's perjur'd faith deplore;
Witness, ye powers, by whom she falsely swore!
The gods, alas! are witnesses in vain;
Yet shall my dying breath to Heaven complain.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"The pines of Mænalus, the vocal grove,
Are ever full of verse, and full of love :
They hear the hinds, they hear their god complain;
Who suffer'd not the reeds to rise in vain.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"Mopsus triumphs; he weds the willing fair:
When such is Nisa's choice, what lover can despair!
Now griffons join with mares; another age

Shall see the hound and hind their thirst asswage

66

Promiscuous at the spring: prepare the lights,
O Mopsus! and perform the bridal rites.
Scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys:
Thine is the night, and thine the nuptial joys.
For thee the Sun declines: O happy swain!
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
O, Nisa! justly to thy choice condemn'd!
Whom hast thou taken, whom hast thou contemn'd;
For him, thou hast refus'd my browsing herd,
Scorn'd my thick eyebrows, and my shaggy beard.
Unhappy Damon sighs, and sings in vain:
While Nisa thinks no god regards a lover's pain.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"I view'd thee first, how fatal was the view!
And led thee where the ruddy wildings grew
High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning
dew.

Then scarce the bending branches I could win,
The callow down began to clothe my chin;
I saw, I perish'd; yet indulg'd my pain:
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"I know thee, Love; in deserts thou wert bred;
And at the dugs of savage tigers fed:
Alien of birth, usurper of the plains: [strains.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Manalian
"Relentless love the cruel mother led,
The blood of her unhappy babes to shed:
Love lent the sword; the mother struck the blow;
Inhuman she; but more unhappy thou.
Alien of birth, usurper of the plains: [strains.
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Manalian
"Old doting Nature, change thy course anew:
And let the trembling lamb the wolf pursue:
Let oaks now glitter with Hesperian fruit,
And purple datiodils from alder shoot.
Fat amber let the tamarisk distil:
And hooting owls contend with swans in skill.
Hoarse Tityrus strive with Orpheus in the woods;
And challenge fam'd Arion on the floods.
Or, oh! let Nature cease, and chaos reign:
Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.
"Let earth be sea; and let the whelming tide
The lifeless limbs of luckless Damon hide:
Farewell, ye secret woods and shady groves,
Haunts of my youth, and conscious of my loves!
From yon high cliff I plunge into the main;
Take the last present of thy dying swain:
And cease, my silent flute, the sweet Mænalian
strain."

"Knit with three knots the fillets, knit them
straight;

Then say, 'These knots to love I consecrate.'
Haste, Amaryllis, haste; restore, my charms,
My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms.

"As fire this figure hardens, made of clay;
And this of wax with fire consumes away;
Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be;
Hard to the rest of women; soft to me.
Crumble the sacred mole of salt and corn,
Next in the fire the bays with brimstone burn.
And while it crackles in the sulphur, say, [away.'
This, I for Daphnis burn; thus Daphnis burn
This laurel is his fate: restore, my charms,
My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms.

"As when the raging heifer, through the grove, Stung with desire, pursues her wandering love; Faint at the last, she seeks the weedy pools To quench her thirst, and on the rushes rolls: Careless of night, unmindful to return; Such fruitless fires perfidious Daphnis burn. While I so scorn his love; restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

"These garments once were his; and left to me; The pledges of his promis'd loyalty: Which underneath my threshold I bestow; These pawns, O sacred Earth! to me my Daphnis As these were his, so mine is he: my charms, [owe. Restore their lingering lord to my deluded arms. "These poisonous plants, for magic use design'd, (The noblest and the best of all the baneful kind,) Old Moeris brought me from the Pontic strand, And cull'd the mischief of a bounteous land. Smear'd with these powerful juices, on the plain He bowls a wolf among the hungry train: And oft the mighty necromancer boasts, With these, to call from tombs the stalking ghosts; And from the roots to tear the standing corn, Which, whirl'd aloft, to distant fields is borne. Such is the strength of spells: restore, my charms, My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

"Bear out these ashes; cast them in the brook; Cast backwards o'er your head, nor turn your look: Since neither gods, nor godlike verse can move, Break out, ye smother'd fires, and kindle smother'd love.

Exert your utmost power, my lingering charms, And force my Daphnis to my longing arms.

"See, while my last endeavours 1 delay, The waking ashes rise, and round our altars play: Run to the threshold, Amaryllis; hark, Our Hylas opens, and begins to bark. Good Heaven! may lovers what they wish believe; Or dream their wishes, and those dreams deceive! No more, my Daphnis comes; no more, my charms; He comes, he runs, he leaps, to my desiring arms."

THE NINTH PASTORAL;

OR, LYCIDAS AND MORIS.

THE ARGUMENT.

in hope to take possession, he was in danger to be slain by Arius the centurion, to whom those lands were assigned by the emperor, in reward of his service against Brutus and Cassius. This pastoral therefore is filled with complaints of his hard usage; and the persons introduced, are the bailiff of Virgil, Moris, and his friend Lycidas.

1.YCIDAS.

MOR. Such was the news, indeed; but songs and
Prevail as much in these hard iron times, [rhymes
As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise
Against an eagle sousing from the skies.
And had not Phoebus warn'd me by the croak
Of an old raven, from a hollow oak,

To shun debate, Menalcas had been slain,
And Moris not surviv'd him, to complain. [induce

LYC. Now Heaven defend! could barbarous rage
The brutal son of Mars t' insult the sacred Muse!
Who then should sing the nymphs, or who rehearse
The waters gliding in a smoother verse!
Or Amaryllis praise, that heavenly lay,
That shorten'd, as we went, our tedious way.
O Tityrus, tend my herd, and see them fed ;
To morning pastures, evening waters, led:
And 'ware the Libyan ridgel's butting head.

MOER. Or what unfinish'd he to Varus read; Thy name, O Varus, (if the kinder powers Preserve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers, Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring crime,) The wings of swans, and stronger pinion'd rhyme, Shall raise aloft, and soaring bear above Th' immortal gift of gratitude to Jove.

LYC. Sing on, sing on, for I can ne'er be cloy'd,
So may thy swarms the baleful yew avoid :
So may thy cows their burden'd bags distend,
And trees to goats their willing branches bend.
Mean as I am, yet have the Muses made
Me free, a member of the tuneful trade:
At least, the shepherds seem to like my lays,
But I discern their flattery from their praise:
I nor to Cinna's ears, nor Varus' dare aspire;
But gabble like a goose, amidst the swan-like quire.
MOR. "Tis what I have been conning in my
Nor are the verses of a vulgar kind. [mind:
Come, Galatea, come, the seas forsake;
What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse
murmurs make?

See, on the shore inhabits purple spring,
Where nightingales their lovesick ditty sing;
See, meads with purling streams, with flowers the

Come then, 'and leave the waves' tumultuous roar, Let the wild surges vainly beat the shore.

LYC. Or that sweet song I heard with such delight: The same you sung alone one starry night; The tune I still retain, but not the words. MER. Why, Daphnis, dost thou search in old To know the seasons when the stars arise?

records,

See Cæsar's lamp is lighted in the skies:
The star, whose rays the blushing grapes adorn,
And swell the kindly ripening ears of corn.
Under this influence graft the tender shoot;
Thy children's children shall enjoy the fruit.
The rest I have forgot, for cares and time
Change all things, and untune my soul to rhyme:
I could have once sung down a summer's sun,
But now the chime of poetry is done.

My voice grows hoarse; I feel the notes decay,
As if the wolves had seen me first to day.
But these, and more than I to mind can bring,
Menalcas has not yet forgot to sing.

LYC. Thy faint excuses but inflame me more;
And now the waves roll silent to the shore.
Husht winds the topmost branches scarcely bend,
As if thy tuneful song they did attend:
Already we have half our way o'ercome;
Far off I can discern Bianor's tomb;

[bow'r

Here, where the labourer's hands have form'd a
Of wreathing trees, in singing waste an hour.
Rest here thy weary limbs, thy kids lay down,
We've day before us yet, to reach the town:
Or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear,
A song will help the beating storm to bear.
And that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Singing, I'll ease thy shoulders of thy load.
MER. Cease to request me; let us mind our
[way;
Another song requires another day.
When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,
And find a friend at court, I'll find a voice.

THE TENTH PASTORAL;

OR, GALLUS.

THE ARGUMENT.

THY sacred succour, Arethusa, bring,
To crown my labour: 'tis the last I sing.
Which proud Lycoris may with pity view;
The Muse is mournful, though the numbers few.
Refuse me not a verse, to grief and Gallus due.

So may thy silver streams beneath the tide,
Unmix'd with briny seas, securely glide.
Sing then my Gallus, and his hopeless vows;
Sing, while my cattle crop the tender browse.
The vocal grove shall answer to the sound,
And echo, from the vales, the tuneful voice rebound.
What lawns or woods withheld you from his aid,
Ye nymphs, when Gallus was to love betray'd;
To love, unpity'd by the cruel maid?
Nor steepy Pindus cou'd retard your course,
Nor cleft Parnassus, nor th' Aonian source :
Nothing that owns the Muses cou'd suspend
Your aid to Gallus, Gallus is their friend.
For him the lofty laurel stands in tears,
And hung with humid pearls the lowly shrub ap-
Mænalian pines the godlike swain bemoan; [pears.
When spread beneath a rock he sigh'd alone;
And cold Lycæus wept from every dropping stone.
The sheep surround their shepherd, as he lies:
Blush not, sweet poet, nor the name despise:
Along the streams his flock Adonis fed,
And yet the queen of beauty blest his bed.
The swains and tardy neat-herds came, and last
Menalcas, wet with beating winter mast.
Wondering they ask'd from whence arose thy
Yet more amaz'd, thy own Apollo came. [flame;
Flush'd were his cheeks, and glowing were his eyes;
"Is she thy care? is she thy care?" he cries.
Thy false Lycoris flies thy love and thee:

And for thy rival tempts the raging sea,
The forms of horrid war, and Heaven's inclemency."
Sylvanus came: his brows a country crown
Of fennel, and of nodding lilies, drown.
Great Pan arriv'd; and we beheld him too:
His cheeks and temples of vermillion hue.

66

Why, Gallus, this immoderate grief," he cry'd: "Think'st thou that love with tears is satisfy'd? The meads are sooner drunk with morning dews; The bees with flowery shrubs, the goats with browse."

Unmov'd, and with dejected eyes he mourn'd;
He paus'd, and then these broken words return d:
""Tis past; and pity gives me no relief:
But you, Arcadian swains, shall sing my grief:
And on your hills my last complaints renew;
So sad a song is only worthy you.

How light would lie the turf upon my breast,
If you my sufferings in your songs exprest?
Ah! that your birth and business had been mine;
To penn the sheep, and press the swelling vine!
Had Phyllis or Amyntas caus'd my pain,
Or any nymph, or any shepherd on the plain.
Though Phyllis brown, though black Amyntas were,
Are violets not sweet, because not fair?
Beneath the sallows, and the shady vine,
My loves had mix'd their pliant limbs with mine;
Phyllis with myrtle wreaths had crown'd my hair,
And soft Amyntas sung away my care.
Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound;
The woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground.
As you are beauteous, were you half so true,
Here could I live, and love, and die with only you.
Now I to fighting fields am sent afar,

And strive in winter camps with toils of war;
While you, (alas, that I should find it so !)
To shun my sight, your native soil forego,

And climb the frozen Alps, and tread th' eternal

snow.

Ye frosts and snows, her tender body spare ; Those are not limbs for icicles to tear,

For me, the wilds and deserts are my choice;
The Muses, once my care; my once harmonious
There will I sing, forsaken and alone, [voice.
The rocks and hollow caves shall echo to my moan.
The rind of every plant her name shall know;
And as the rind extends, the love shall grow,
Then on Arcadian mountains will I chase
(Mix'd with the woodland nymphs) the savage race.
Nor cold shall hinder me, with horns and hounds
To thrid the thickets, or to leap the mounds.
And now methinks o'er steepy rocks I go,
And rush through sounding woods, and bend the
Parthian bow:

As if with sports my sufferings I could ease,
Or by my pains the god of love appease.
My frenzy changes, I delight no more

On mountain tops to chase the tusky boar;
No game but hopeless love my thoughts pursue:
Once more, ye nymphs, and songs, and sounding
woods, adieu."

Love alters not for us his hard decrees,

occasion offered, of presenting to you the best poem of the best poet. If I balked this opportunity, I was in despair of finding such another; and if I took it, I was still uncertain whether you would vouchsafe to accept it from my hands. It was a bold venture which I made, in desiring your permission to lay my unworthy labours at your feet. But my rashness has succeeded beyond my hopes: and you have been pleased not to suffer an old man to go discontented out of the world for want of that protection, of which he had so long been ambitious. I have known a gentleman in disgrace, and not daring to appear before king Charles the Second, though he much desired it. At length he took the confidence to attend a fair lady to the court, and told his majesty, that under

Or Italy's indulgent heaven forego;

And in mid-winter tread Sithonian snow.

Or when the barks of elms are scorch'd, we keep
On Meroë's burning plains the Libyan sheep.
In Hell, and Earth, and Seas, and Heav'n above,
Love conquers all; and we must yield to love.
My Muses, here your sacred raptures end:
The verse was what I ow'd my suffering friend.
This while I sung, my sorrows I deceiv'd,
And bending osiers into baskets weav'd.
The song, because inspir'd by you, shall shine:
And Gallus will approve, because 'tis mine.
Gallus, for whom my holy flames renew
Each hour, and every moment rise in view:
As alders, in the spring,' their boles extend;
And heave so fiercely, that the bark they rend.
Now let us rise, for hoarseness oft invades
The singer's voice who sings beneath the shades.
From juniper unwholsome dews distil,
That blast the sooty corn, the withering herbage
Away, my goats, away: for you have brows'd
your fill.

I

[kill;

With the same humble confidence 1 present myself before your lordship, and attending on Virgil hope a gracious reception. The gentleman succeeded, because the powerful lady was his friend; but I have too much injured my great author, to expect he should intercede for me. I would have translated him; but, according to the literal French and Italian phrases, I fear I have traduced him. It is the fault of many a well-meaning man, to be officious in a wrong place, and do a prejudice, where he had endeavoured to do a service. Virgil wrote his Georgics in the full strength and vigour of his age, when his judgment was at the height, and before his fancy was declining. He had (according to our homely saying) his full swing at this poem, beginning it at about the age of thirty-five; and scarce concluding it before he arrived at forty. It is observed both of him and Horace, and I believe it will hold in all great poets: that though they wrote before with a certain heat of genius which inspired them, yet that heat was not perfectly digested. There is required a continuance of warmth to ripen the best and noblest fruits. Thus Horace, in his first and second book of Odes, was still rising, but came not to his meridian till the third. After which his judgment was an overpoise to his imagination; he grew too cautious to be bold enough, for he

Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro. Seven years together I have concealed the longing which I had to appear before you: a time as tedious as Æneas passed in his wandering voyage, before he reached the promised Italy. But I considered that nothing which my meanness could produce, was worthy of your patronage. At last this happy

his Satires and Epistles, was more a philosopher and a critic than a poet. In the beginning of summer the days are almost at a stand, with little variation of length or shortness, because at that time the diurnal motion of the Sun partakes more of a right line, than of a spiral. The same is the method of nature in the frame of man. He seems at forty to be fully in his summer tropic; somewhat before, and somewhat after, he finds in bis