Front matter

PASTORALS,

EPISTLES, ODES,

AND OTHER

Dedication

To His Grace

THOMAS

Duke of Newcastle.

Preface to Pastoral Poems

PASTORAL

POEMS

Nostra nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia. >>>Virg. Ecl. 6.

PREFACE.

IT is somewhat strange to conceive, in an age so addicted ta the Muses, how Pastoral Poetry comes to be be never so much as thought upon; considering, especially, that it is of the greatest antiquity, and hath ever been accounted the foremost, amongst the smaller poems, in dignity. Virgil and Spenser made use of it as a prelude to Epic Poetry: but, I fear, the innocency of the subject makes it so little inviting.

There is no kind of Poem, if happily executed, but gives delight; and herein may the Pastoral boast after a peculiar manner: for, as in Painting, so in Poetry, the Country affords not only the most delightful scenes and prospects, but likewise the most pleasing images of life.

Gassendus (I remember) observes that Peireskius was a great lover of musick, especially the melody of birds: because their simple strains have less of passion and violence, but more of a sedate and quiet harmony, and therefore, do they rather befriend contemplation. In like manner, the Pastoral Song gives a sweet and gentle composure to the mind; whereas the Epic and Tragic Poems, by the vehemency of their emotions, raise the spirits into a ferment.

To view a fair stately palace strikes us indeed with admiration, and swells the soul with notions of grandeur! but when I see a little country dwelling, advantageously situated amidst a beautiful variety of hills, meadows, fields, woods, and rivulets, I feel an unspeakable sort of satisfaction, and cannot forbear wishing my kinder fortune would place me in such a sweet retirement.

Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenser, are the only Poets who seem to have hit upon the true nature of Pastoral Compositions: so that it will be sufficient praise for me, if I have not altogether failed in my attempt.

First Pastoral

PASTORAL

POEMS.

The FIRST PASTORAL.

<>LOBBIN. IF 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 numb'red sheep within the fold now pent, Thus plain'd him of his dreery discontent; Beneath a hoary poplar's whisp'ring 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.

"Ah, well a day! how long must I endure "This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure? "Fond love no cure will have, seeks 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 proling wolf constrain'd "All night to wake: with hunger is he 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 rustick 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? "How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet, "Wont they, upon the green, to shift their feet? "And, wearyed in the dance, how would they yearn "Some well devised tale from me to learn? "For many songs and tales of mirth had I, "To chase the loitering sun adown the sky: "But, ah! since Lucy coy deep-wrought her spight "Within my heart, unmindful of delight "The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone, "To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan. "Oh! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless Fair! "E're, ling'ring long, I perish through despair. "Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind, "Though not so fair, she would have prov'd more kind. "O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time, "How flying years impair the youthful prime! "Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay, "And flowers, though left ungath'red, will decay:

"The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring! "But beauty faded has no second spring. "My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries, "Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes. "Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads, "She gads where'er her roving fancy leads; "Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chace! "Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace. "She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind, "Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind. "No cruel purpose, in my speed, I bear; Tis only love; and love why should'st thou fear? "What idle fears a maiden-breast alarm! "Stay, simple girl: a lover cannot harm. "Two sportive kidlings, both fair-fleck'd, I rear; "Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear: "A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed, "And teach the fondling from my hand to feed: "Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields "Of every dewy sweet the morning yields: "From early spring to autumn late shalt thou "Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow: "And when,—— But, why these unavailing pains? "The gifts, alike, and giver, the disdains:

"And now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem "Me, londless lad, unworthy her esteem: "Yet, was th e born, like me, of shepherd-fire; "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 plumbs how lightsome climb the tree, "How risque the vengeance of the thrifty Bee! "O! if thou deign to live a shepherdess, "Thou Lobbins flock, and Lobbin, shalt possess: "And, fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I, "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' imployment mean, "The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean, "To drive a-field, by morn, the fattening ewes, E're the warm Sun drink up the cooly dews, "While, with my pipe, and with my voice, I chear "Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. "How would the crook beseem thy lilly 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 dy. "O, killing beauty! and O, sore desire! "Must then my fufferings, 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.

Second Pastoral

THE

SECOND PASTORAL.

THENOT, COLINET.

<>THENOT. IS it not Colinet I lonesome see, Leaning with folded arms against the tree? Or is it age of late bedims my fight? 'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.

Thy cloudy look why melting into tears, Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears? Why in this mournful manner art thou found, Unthankful lad, when all things smile around? Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing, Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring?

<>COLINET. Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate; Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.

Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born, As they to mirth and musick, I to mourn. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew, My tears oft' mingling with the falling dew.

<>THENOT. Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain: Or who may, then, the weight of eld sustain, When every slackening nerve begins to fail, And the load presseth as our days prevail? Yet, though with years my body downward tend, As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend Spite of my snowy head and icy veins, My mind a chearful temper still retains: And why should man, mishap what will, repine, Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine? But tell me then: it may relieve thy woe, To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

<>COLINET. Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs, In loud complaints, requise their absent dams.

<>THENOT. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.

<>COLINET. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling hour my youth attend? Though few my days, as well my follies show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe: No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear, My lowering sky, and wintery months, to chear. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see: Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind: The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill fated I! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

<>THENOT. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, When blighting mildews spoil the rising corn,

Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass, To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass, Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows, Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes. Untimely born, ill lack betides thee still.

<>COLINET. And can there, Thenot, be a greater Ill?

<>THENOT. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep: From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep: Against ill luck, alas! all forecast fails; Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

<>COLINET. Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day! Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say. Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud, I lest, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood. Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep, Which, on thy flowery banks, I wont so keep. Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more, With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore? When, in the crystal of thy water, scan Each feature faded, and my colour wan?

When shall I see my hut, the small abode Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod? Small though it be, a mean and humble cell, Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.

<>THENOT. And what enticement charm'd thee, far away, From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

<>COLINET. A lewd desire strange lands, and swains, to know: Ah God! that ever I should covet woe. With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame, I sought I know not what besides a name.

<>THENOT. Or, sooth to say, did'st thou not hither rome In search of gains more plenty than at home? A rolling stone is, ever, bare of moss; And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

<>COLINET. Small need there was, in random search 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, through travel and ill fare, And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,

The damp, cold greensward, for my nightly bed, And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain; And hard is want to the unpracticed swain: But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, To blasting storms of calumny compar'd: Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

<>THENOT. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?

<>COLINET. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite, Make mock of all the ditties I endite, In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so thrill, Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill: In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove, In the cool shade to sing the pains of love: Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail; And every elf hath skill enough to rail: But yet, though poor and artless be my vein, Menalcas seems to like my simple strain: And, while that He delighteth in my song, Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,

Nor night, nor day, shall my rude musick cease; I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

<>THENOT. Menalcas, lord of these fair, fertile, plains, Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns: For him our yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold, And choose the fairest firstling from the fold: He, good to all, who Good deserve, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

<>COLINET. First, then, shall lightsome birds forget to fly, The briny ocean turn to pastures dry, And every rapid river cease to flow, E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

<>ΤHENOT. This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night, Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite:

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.

Third Pastoral

THE

THIRD PASTORAL.

<>ALBINO. WHEN Virgil thought no shame the Dorick reed To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, With young Augustus name he grac'd his song: And Spenser, when amid the rural throng He carol'd sweet, and graz'd along the flood Of gentle Thames, made every sounding wood With good Elizas name to ring around; Elizas name on every tree was found: Since then, through Annas cares at ease we live, And see our cattle unmolested thrive, While from our Albion her victorious arms Drive wasteful warfare, loud in dire alarms, Like them will I my slender musick raise, And teach the vocal valleys Annas praise.

Mean-time, on oaten pipe a lowly lay, As my kids browse, obscure in shades I play: Yet, not obscure, while Dorset thinks no scorn To visit woods, and swains ignobly born.

Two valley swains, both musical, both young, Tn friendship mutual, and united long; Retire within a mossy cave, to shun The crowd of shepherds, and the noon-day sun. A gloom of sadness overcasts their mind: Revolving now, the solemn day they find, When youg Albino died, His image dear Bedews their cheeks with many a trickling tear: To tears they add the tribute of their verse; These Angelot, those Palin, did rehearse.

<>ANGELOT. Thus, yearly circling, by-past times return; And yearly, thus, Albinos 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 hear'd, no flocks were seen, Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green, No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood, No birds were hear'd 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 ly 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, When, in her widowed arms, devoid of breath,

She clasp'd her son: nor did the Nymph, for this, Place in her dearling's welfare all her bliss, Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield, And rule the peaceful empire of the field. As milk-white swans on streams of silver show, And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow, As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn, So thou, to thine, an ornament wast born. Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains, Th' ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains, In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat, And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat, A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield; And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field. How all our hope is fled, like morning-dew! And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view. Who, now, shall teach the pointed spear to throw, To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow, To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far, With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar? Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days, To share her triumphs, and feel her praise, In foreign realms to purchase early fame, And add new glories to the British name:

O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit, rest! The flowery turf ly, light upon thy breast; Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round, Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground,

<>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 thrilling 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-lillies sweet, and tufts of daffadil, With what ye cull from wood, or verdant hill, Whether in open sun, or shade, they blow, More early some, and some unfolding flow, 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 no profusion for Albino spare. Your hamlets strew, and every publick way; And consecrate to mirth Albinos 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 antick gambols play: To thee these honours, yearly, will we pay; Nor fail to mention thee in all our chear, And teach our children the remembrance dear, When we or shearing-feast, or harvest, keep, To speed the plow, and bless our thriving sheep.

While willow kids, and herbage lambs, pursue, While bees love thyme, and locusts sip the dew, While birds delight in woods their notes to strain, Thy name and sweet memorial shall remain.

Fourth Pastoral

THE

FOURTH PASTORAL.

<>MYCO, ARGOL.

<>MYCO. THIS place may seem for shepherd's leisure made, So close these elms inweave their lofty shade; The twining woodbine, how it climbs! to breathe Refreshing sweets around on all beneath; The ground with grass of chearful green bespread, Through which the springing flower up-rears the head: Lo, here the kingcup of a golden hue, Medly'd with daisies white and endive blue, And honeysuckles of a purply dy, Confusion gay! bright-waving to the eye.

Hark, how they warble in that brambly bush, The gaudy goldfinch and the speckly thrush, The linnet green, with others famed for skill, And blackbird fluting through his yellow bill: In sprightly concert how they all combine, Us prompting in the various song to join: Up, Argol, then, and to thy lip apply Thy mellow pipe, or voice more sounding try: And since our ewes have graz'd, what harm if they Ly round and listen while the lambkins play?

<>ARGOL. Well, Myco, can thy dainty wit express Fair nature's bounties in the fairest dress: 'Tis rapture all! the place, the birds, the sky; And rapture works the finger's fancy high. Sweet breathe the fields, and now a gentle breez Moves every leaf, and trembles through the trees: Ill such incitements suit my rugged lay, Befitting more the Musick thou can'st play.

<>MYCO. No skill of musick kon I, simple swain, No fine device thine ear to entertain: Albeit some deal I pipe, rude though it be, Sufficient to divert my sheep and me;

Yet Colinet (and Colinet hath skill) Oft' guides my fingers on the tunefull quill, And fain would teach me on what sounds to dwell, And where to sink a note, and where to swell.

<>ARGOL. Ah, Myco! half my flock would I bestow, Should Colinet to me his cunning show: So trim his sonnets are, I pr'ythee, swain, Now give us, once, a sample of his strain: For wonders of that lad the shepherds say, How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay! The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse; And ask what Boon thou willest for thy verse.

<>MYCO. Since then thou lift, a mournful song I chuse: A mournful song relieves a mournfull Muse. Fast by the river on a bank he sate, To weep the lovely maid's untimely fate, Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she, Whose fate he wept, a faithful shepherd he.