STREP HON.

O'er golden fands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po ;
Bleft Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield
Feed here my lambs, I'll feek no distant field.

DAPHNI S.

Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves;

If Windfor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windfor-shade,

STRE PHO N.

All nature mourns, the skies relent in show'rs,
Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs;
If Delia fmiles, the flow'rs begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to fing.

DAPHNI S.

All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The fun's mild luftre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia fmiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vainquish'd nature feems to charm no more..

STREPH O N.

In fpring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,

But Delia always; abfent from her fight,

Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.

DAPHNI S.

Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Ev'n fpring difpleafes, when she shines not here;
But bleft with her, 'tis fpring throughout the year.

STREP HON.

Say, shepherd, fay, in what glad foil appears
A wondrous tree that facred Monarchs bears?
Tell me but this, and I'll difclaim the prize,
And give the conqueft to thy Sylvia's eyes.

DAPHNI S.

Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields
The thistle ** fprings, to which the lily yields?
And then a nobler prize I will resign;

For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine.

* An allufion to the Royal oak, in which Charles II had been hid from the purfuit after the battle of Worcester.

** An allufion to the device of the Scots Monarchs, the thistle, worn by Queen Anne, and to the arms of France, the fleur de lys.

DAMON.

Ceafe to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee.
Bleft fwains, whofe Nymphs in ev'ry grace excel,
Bleft Nymphs, whofe fwains those graces fing so well!
Now rife, and hafte to yonder woodbine bow'rs,
A foft retreat from fudden vernal show'rs ;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd;
While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around.
For fee! The gath'ring flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs defcend.

SUMMER,

SUMMER,

THE SECOND PASTORAL.

A

TO Dr. GARTH.

SHEPHERD'S boy (he seeks no better name) Led forth is flocks along the filver Thame, Where dancing fun beams on the waters play'd, And verdant alders form'd a quiv'ring shade. Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow, The flocks around a dumb compassion show, The Naiads wept in ev'ry watʼry bow'r, And Jove confented in a filent show'r,

Accept, o Garth, the Mufe's early lays,. That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays; Hear what from love unpractis'd hearts endure, From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams, To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I fing, The woods shall answer, and their echo ring. The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, They parch'd with heat, and I inflam'd by thee. The fultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.

Where ftray ye Mufcs, in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In those fair fields where facred Ifis glides, Or elfe where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh rifing blushes paint the watʼry glass; But fince thofe graces pleafe thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I fought before. Once I was skill'd in ev'ry herb that grew, And ev'ry plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched shepherd! what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart? Let other fwains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear, But nigh yon' mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death; He faid: » Alexis, take this pipe, the fame >> That taught the groves my Rosalinda's naine «<, But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, For ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee. Oh! were I made, by fome transforming pow'r, The captive bird that sings within thy bow'r! Then might my voice thy liftn'ing ears employ, And I, thofe kiffes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song : The Nymphs, forfaking ev'ry cave and spring, Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring; Each am'rous Nymph prefers her gifts in vain,