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But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day neat,
THE THIRD PASTORAL; OR, HYLAS AND EGON.
To Mr. Wycherley.
BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
Now setting Phoebus shone screnely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sound Delia, cach cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes! Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
Next Egon sang, while Windsor groves admired Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspired.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjured Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain; Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove. Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay; The shepherds cry, 'Thy flocks are left a prey.' Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserved my sheep? Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caused my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains. From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world but love; I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred; Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed: Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn, Hot by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods; adieu, the light of day; One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains.
Thus sang the shepherds till the approach of night The skies yet blushing with departed light,
When falling dews with spangles deck the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.
THE FOURTH PASTORAL; OR, DAPIINE
To the Memory of Mrs. Tempest.
THYRSIS, the music of that murmuring spring Is not so mournful as the strains you sing: Nor rivers winding through the vales below, So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow. Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie, The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky, While silent birds forget their tuneful lays, O sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise! THYRSIS.
Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field. Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave, And said, 'Ye shepherds, sing around my grave? Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Ye gentle muses, leave your chrystal spring, Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring. Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide, And break your bows as when Adonis died;
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
'Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay:
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food; The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood: The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan, In notes more sad than when they sing their own: In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies:
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore:
No grateful dews descend from evening skies,
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings. Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings; No more the birds shall imitate her lays, Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear. A sweeter music than their own to hear; But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore, Fair Daphne's dead, and music is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ;